LIKE MEDS, FRI 01JUN2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: 0700-0800, 1 hr.

Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent.

     I haven’t surfed since Oceanside last Sunday, and it’s because school has been a bitch. Two classes during a six week semester are a little hard to handle. Too much reading and writing without enough time. However, since I have to work this weekend, this Friday is my last chance to get some waves until next week, so I have to paddle out no matter what.

#

     I told Francis yesterday that I’d paddle out early, but again, I hit snooze until 0630. I look at my phone. He shot me a text at 0600 that the tide was high. He’s already there. So as not to be a flake, I grab my gear and head out.

     On Fridays the parking at 26^th St. sucks ass, so I have no choice but to park at the meters. On my way to the sand, I can already see that the surf is having issues with the high tide. It’s clean and glassy, but the waves are only breaking close to shore. However, there are a couple spots that still push waves out despite the tide. I look for Francis, and he’s easy to find, as he’s trimming down the face of a mooshy, three-footer, reentering off the high line, bottom turning, and pumping for more distance. My warm up’s a quick one since I only have an hour before the meter maids come in for a raping. We see each other as I paddle out, and he waves.

     I’m back on the DMS because I think I’ve outgrown the JS. I’ve been riding it for over a year now, so it’s about time that I’ve progressed to something else.

#

     The locals here know what’s up, that’s why they’re sitting “here” and not where the shore pound is. There’s this magic sand bar that works when it’s not working anywhere else. A mooshy three-footer forms. It has a long section behind it, so it’s not peaky but the right-hand shoulder tapers down, leaving a smooth, building fcw. I pump down the line to the inside section, where it stands up and goes fast. The shoulder’s soft and open like a blank canvas, the kind of shoulder that’s perfect for carving. I bottom turn and thrust my tail into the lip. I hear the unmistakable splash of water as I reenter when the wave closes out. I paddle back to Francis.

     “I heard that one,” he says. He splashes the water and makes a swooshing sound.

     Francis gets more waves than I, which is normal. I get a couple, but the consistency gets worse towards the eight o’clock hour.

     “Staying out?” he asks.

     “Nah, I can’t. I gotta get a haircut and get ready for work.”

     We give our goodbyes, and I move on to start the rest of my day. It was only an hour of surf, but those couple sprays that I got off the lip will be enough to hold me down for the weekend.

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.