THE UNEXPECTED, SUN 27MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Rick and Canales

Time: 0630-0930, 3 hrs.

Conditions: 3-4 FT, consistent, zero crowded, glassy, clean, offshore.

     I wake up in the middle of the night to take a piss. It’s 0430. When I come back to the tent, Rick’s still passed out. I expect it to be a morning of sleeping in.

#

     “Matt, wake up!”

     “What, huh?” I lean over and prop myself up on my right elbow. Rick’s head is in the tent, and he’s staring at me.

     “The wind’s offshore, Matt. We need to get on it while it’s good. Let’s go to Oceanside. Get up.”

     “Okay. . . .” I look at my watch. 0530. With the way Rick’s moving you’d think it was noon. The look in his eyes is wild like he’s been up for hours or has been on a caffeine binge, and then it hits me. Canales doesn’t surf. It’s not fair to leave him here or force him up. He came for the reunion, not for water.

     I step outside the tent and find pots with hard boiled eggs and coffee. Rick’s been up for a while.

     “Yeah, we’ll only be there for like two hours,” says Rick in the distance.

     I look over. He’s talking to Canales who’s is still lying down with his beanie half-crooked, covering one eye, dazed. I feel like telling Rick that we’ll just chill here, but he’s all over the place, loading his gear and prepping for the morning. Okay . . . we’re going.

#

     Rick gives Canales the full tour guide treatment during the drive down south. The same tour guide speech that I’ve heard him give myself, my brother, Francis, Canales, and again myself every time we take this drive.

     When we get to the surf spot, I expect nothing. This whole weekend has been small with surf in the background of other things. Besides, I’ve already seen the reports and the forecast. Nothing is breaking down south. The South Bay is actually better Trestles, of course on the weekend that I plan a camping trip. Typical. Even the offshore wind doesn’t give me optimism. We need SWELL.

#

     We’re standing on the sand . . . and I can’t believe it. Not a soul is in the water. Expected. The wind is so light that it’s almost dead. Expected. It’s glassy. Expected. There are unridden, three-foot peaks going unridden, lining all the way up to shore. UNEXPECTED!

     “Look at that,” says Rick. “Looks fun huh?” He gives me a smile which is half stoke and half mockery.

     Yeah, yeah, I know . . . I know, Rick, I know. I’m the grumpy asshole that didn’t want to get up and drive down here for two-foot slop. Yes, Rick. I was wrong, I’m an idiot, and by all means I need to stop doubting your judgment. I look at a four foot wave peel away. I say, “Well, that’s all I need to see!” It’s go time. We march back to the whip, and the only thought I have in my mind is to suit up as fast as possible.

     A couple groms are on the sand, laying out their boards.

     Rick says, “Good morning. Looks fun out there!”

     “Yeah,” one of them says, “we’re gonna paddle out a little later.”

     A little later? Why the hell would they wanna do that?

     We do our best to accommodate Canales. Sure, it’s barely 0630, but we set up a beach chair with a cooler full of beer and some snacks for him. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

#

     I brought my JS because I didn’t expect the surf to be good, but it’s not a bad thing. I’ll be getting waves for sure now. The paddle out is easy, but we can’t decide on where to sit. Some lefts break close to the jetty, and yet there are peaks further north. We accept that this is a natural surf phenomenon of indecisiveness when you have a whole break to yourself, so we just stay put.

     Rick paddles away, gambling with his instincts, predicting a peak somewhere else where I’m not, but I get lucky. A peak forms on the outside right in front of me. I paddle to it and go left. The waves are so clean. They aren’t round, but they’re not mooshy either. The face is so smooth that the spilling lip looks like it’s moving over an immovable, glass surface. The section builds in front of me. I pump, bottom turn, and try to get a carve off the lip. I do, but I notice a difference. I’ve been on my chippy DMS board lately because the JS was broken. Now that I’m on the meaty JS again, my carve feels slow and sluggish, like I’m a second behind where I want to be. I redirect and make my way down to the next section, ending the ride with one more turn.

     Rick says, “I seen you hitting the lip, Matt, but you really need to get a good bottom turn to whack it off the top real good.”

     I nod in agreement, knowing that this is easier said than done; it always is. Rick’s right, and I’m always working on improving my turns every time I paddle out. More practice.

     After the first hour, he goes in for a snack. When he comes back he says, “Canales wanted to get in the water too.” He motions towards the shore. Canales is struggling, holding the board upright in an attempt to beat the whitewash.

#

     I can’t say that the surf is super consistent, but since no one else is out here, it feels like it is. We have all the waves to ourselves, so I must catch as many as possible; I have to, it’s the only way. Pump-pump-carve, pump-pump-carve, is the mantra of the morning. My arms are burning, I gasp for air every time I resurface from a duckdive. I feel like shit. Yup. The carne asada and Tecate diet is catching up. It’s shit fuel for surfing. 

     Even when the wind switches sideshore and creates texture, the shape is still good, but some guys begin to paddle out towards our north and create a small pack. At the three hour mark we go in. From the shore we look at the ocean. It’s onshore, the waves are being knocked down, and the shape’s gone to shit. Yeah . . . Rick chose an excellent window.

#

     Back at the campsite, everyone leaves. I reserved the spot until Monday morning. I usually do a morning sesh before I pack up, but there’s no surf at Trestles. I make myself some tacos and eat a solo lunch.

     My best friend Manolo swings by and invites me to hang out with his family at Old Mans. The surf is flat, but it’s a beautiful evening. I whip out a book and enjoy the sun before we head back to camp. After he leaves, things get lonely. I wonder if it’s worth staying another night. I’d have to drive to Oceanside again in the morning and on top of that, the swell is dying down. I say fuck it, pack up, and hit the road. School starts on Tuesday, so I may as well get prepared for that. 

     Even though I cut the trip short, it was good seeing everybone. Everything can’t be just about surfing. Life is about relationships and connections too, and to score at Oceanside was a nice cherry on top. Until we meet again. . . .

TINY CHURCH, SAT 26MAY2012 EVE

Crew: Rick and Canales

Time: ?

Conditions: 1-2 FT with occasional 3, inconsistent, uncrowded, warm, glassy, clean.

     It rained last night. It rained fuckin’ hard. Thank God the Coleman Insta-Tent that I spent $160 on did what it was supposed to do and kept us dry.

     

  By 0730 everyone is up, and after we’re done cooking breakfast, Rastaetter says his goodbyes and heads back to Oxnard. 

     To kill some time since the surf is dismal, I take the boys on a hike to the trail that leads up and behind Lowers. I’ve never made this hike before, so it’s a first time for everyone. We throw a twelve pack in my bag and head out.

     

 We find ourselves in front of Middles where some little kids have a water cameraman for the day. Alhough the surf is only two-feet, it looks fun. Even though Avelar, Castillo, and Canales have never surfed before, they’re content with seeing the far-fetched coastline that they only get to see every so often. The Tecates go down smooth, and we sit here for an hour with hot sand under our asses. 

     Once we get back to camp, Rick shows up. For those that don’t know, Rick was everyone’s section sergeant at one point or another. Everyone’s happy to see him. He says that he stopped by Churches and Lowers and that it looked small, so we polish off more food, grab some beer, and head towards the Hoedad shacks by Old Mans. I’m glad he’s here to help mix up the energy, as I can only do so much to keep everyone entertained, and he’s so longwinded with things to say that it ensures there’s never a quiet moment. 

Rule number one . . . never fall asleep around scouts.

     Once Avelar and Castillo leave, Rick gets the itch to paddle out at Churches.

     We grab six beers to make sure that Canales won’t be bored then he says, “I wanna paddle out too.”

     I look at him. “You don’t have a wetsuit.” The years haven’t been kind to his stomach. Right now he’s boarder-line stage-three beer gut. “Maybe Rick has an extra one.”

     He forces himself into Rick’s spring suit, but some things make it obvious that it’s too tight.

     I suggest that he let me show him a couple pointers, but the alcohol has him. He’s been drinking all day. He says, “No, just go, go!” He takes another sip and points to the horizon. “Go do your own thing. I got it.”

     Rick and I sit at the top of the wave at Churches, watching Canales flounder on the Zippy fish. “He gonna be all right?” says Rick.

     It’s a perfect evening save for any swell. We exchange little two-foot rides going right. All trimming, walking the nose—no turns. Rick sneaks away without telling me. I look back. Both he and Canales are gone.

     A little three foot bumps pops out the back. I catch it, the wave doubles up, and I slide into the second wave towards the inside, cranking one backhand turn before it closes. It’s the best wave of the camping trip thus far. I wonder if anyone saw it, but the three longboarders who paddle out serve as an answer to my question. I keep looking back though because I’m worried. Is Canales okay? Did he get hurt? Is Rick okay? Did he take his injections? I get another random three-footer out the back, getting another back-hand snap before going in.

     I’m walking around trying to find these assholes, and then I see them up the street. When they’re close enough, Rick says, “We were in the shower together.” They’re smiling, each with a beer in his hand.

     Assoles, I’m thinking. They left me out of the post-surf beershower ritual.

#

     I accept that this isn’t a weekend for surf, especially with the lack of swell. I remain grateful for my friends who showed up and for my friends who are here.

     Rick turns in early, Canales decides to sleep in his car, and I hang out by the bonfire by my lonesome, enjoying the night, and thinking about what it means to be alive.

FUZZY, FRI 25MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: ?

Conditions: 4-5 FT, semi consistent, uncrowded, warm.

     This entry is titled fuzzy because I’m so behind on my blogs that I can’t fucking remember shit. This is terrible. Just school and work lately have been taking up most of my time. Here’s what I can recall:

#

     It’s the day of my military reunion camping trip at San Onofre. I should be there right now, getting my usual pre-camping surf session at Trestles before I set up the tent, but the surf down south is dismal. I reserved the sites over two weeks in advance, and the surf this weekend is small. Not only is there no south swell, but there is wind and rain forecasted somewhere in there too. Well, like a captain goes down with his ship, I stand by my decision, never succumbing to a faltering thought of cancelling. After all, I haven’t seen most of these guys in over ten years.

     Local is the call. Why? Because the surf local has been surprisingly decent. As much as I’ve written off the South Bay before, I’ve had nothing but good sessions this week. The plan . . . is to surf at 26^th St. and then head down south.

#

     The only reason I might be more consistent that Francis is because I’m a bum. He has a full time job on top of school, and also shares his time with his woman. Despite the everyday commitments that beckon him, he has surfed with me the most out of all of my friends since I met him over a year ago.

     And . . . this is where things get fuzzy. The surf is similar to the days before, but something happens around nine o’clock where people just leave. The wind’s a little onshore, and it’s choppy, but it’s still rideable, and sets are still coming out the back. Only five people share the peak in front of 26^th. One of them is a chick riding a twin-fin fish. I paddle up and talk to her, but I can’t remember her name for the life of me. I think it’s Erin, and she’s from Lawndale. She says she just got back from visiting Maui, so we hit it off right away. What I’m most compelled by is that it’s a brutal session. It’s not small, the inside is consistent, and it’s hard enough to keep the crowd extra thin. And yet, there’s a chick out here, riding a twin-fin fish. I’m not saying that females can’t shred, but I only know one that does: super grom ripper extraordinaire Jordan. My other female surf buddies wouldn’t even be able to make it to the lineup today.

     I can’t remember any significant rides, but I do catch a handful of rights and left, good enough to call it “single shot city.” Francis leaves, but I hang out to talk to the chick a little longer, meeting Francis at my house later.

Locked and loaded

Carne asada tacos. So simple . . .  and tasty!

 

#

     Only a small handful of my old battle buddies from my old scout platoon showed up, and even though I’ve seen most of them within the last couple years, it was the first time they had seen each other in over a decade.

     Once we were done eating tacos, we surrounded the bonfire and lit some cigars that Castillo was nice enough to buy at the PX earlier that day. With the light San Onofre breeze pushing against our faces, we stretched out our fingers near the fire pit, smoked, drank, and talked shit about the guys not there.

     “Where the fuck is Cabrera?” asked Canales.

     “Well, I tried,” I said. “He said he was coming today. No answer.” I leaned over with a log, repositioning the fallen tepee.

     Castillo turned to Rastaetter and said, “Remember Neubauer? I wonder what happened to him.” He turned back towards the fire, still holding his boyish smile, the same familiar one he wore in Utah when he was beardless and still had a head full of hair.

     The wind seemed to stop, and I felt the silence creep up the back of my neck. I knew what would happen next.

     “Didn’t you hear, Craig?” said Rastaetter.

     Castillo released his grin and returned a blank stare. “No,” he said.

     “IED. He was killed in Iraq.”

     The fire crackled on, releasing small sparks into the light plume of gray smoke. Silence followed.

     “Are you serious?” Said Castillo.

     “Yeah,” said Rastaetter.

     All of our heads lowered without a word. Even though we were all staring into the fire, we all saw something different.