Loc: 26th
Crew: Khang
& CC
Conditions:
2 FT occasional 3
The original plan was to surf 26th
Street, but as I stand here looking at it, it’s just too small. It looks
typical of the small days here; it’s only gonna break close to shore. There’s a
good roster for the morning. Shan, Khang, and CC are supposed to be coming out,
but I’m the first one here, and I’m thinking about Porto instead. As much as I
fucking hate paying for parking, it’s usually a hair bigger there, and on a
morning like this another foot makes a HUGE difference.
I drive to Porto and send out the bat
signal, letting everyone else know the change of location. I’m not in the water
long before I spot Khang on the sand. We sit north of 45th. It’s
small, but it’s still rideable. I can’t remember any of Khang’s waves because
for the most part it’s an insignificant morning. However, I do remember one of
mine.
I’m starting to realize that I’m much more
aggressive on my finishing turn on the smaller days. Probably because they are
turns without consequence, especially when the wave is a tapering shoulder from
three down to two-feet. But I “geev’um” on that finishing turn, trying to gouge
out whatever’s left. I catch a right that I get two pumps on. To end the ride,
I hook it off the top as hard as I can, almost pointing the nose back from
where I just came, stalling in place, completing the movement with a nice
little wrap. It’s like falling into the turn.
“Matt, that turn was pretty tight,” says
Khang.
CC’s on the sand warming up next to her
fish. She paddles out, again bothered by her shoulder but trudging through it.
She says she could’ve spent her morning cleaning the apartment or coming out to
surf with us. She chose wisely. She struggles to get into some of the outside
waves, but she ends up getting some towards the outside.
Shan? He’s nowhere to be found.
I tell them about my plans for the day, how
a friend from class wants to come out and surf. Khang and CC are stoked for me,
and they tell me not to be too much of an idiot on the first date. That’s one
of my problems: toning it down.
When I leave, I head to Boris’ to pick up
the NSP that I pretty much let him have, but he hasn’t used it. Why let it
collect dust when I can find a rider for it? I head to Surf Concepts in
Manhattan Beach and buy a longboard leash, wax, and then go home to prep the
NSP.
#
Usually I consider any paddle out to be a
surf session, but if I don’t catch any waves, then it doesn’t count. I need at
least ONE wave to make it a surf session. No less.
Briana took a surfing class at UCSB. She
also bodyboards and is a certified diver. As cautious as I am not to let her
hurt herself, she gives me the impression that she knows what she’s doing.
Since it’s been a while for her, I take her to PV. PV because it’s good for
longboarding, it’s usually not too crowded, and I don’t expect it to be with
the lack of swell. Also because it’s a beautiful place.
#
It’s funny when it’s time to change. I’m
about to be in my wetsuit. She’s going to see my junk through the neoprene. It’s
inevitable. This is where she’ll make her judgment on my penis, a sneak
preview. She has her bikini on while she slips into her wetsuit. I am NOT
disappointed.
I carry the NSP and let her hold my JS
since it’s lighter. Not one surfer is out. On the way down the trail, two guys
are coming up. “Are you sure?” one of them says. “There’s nothing right now.
The tide is coming up.”
“Well, we’re just gonna check it out for a
little bit.”
He shakes his head. “Okay, but you should
go to Rat Beach, just up north a little.”
I nod my head and smile, the universal sign
for: I’m gonna do what I want, regardless.
Down at the water, I’m stoked at the sight.
Yes, it’s small, maybe one foot, but it should be good for the NSP. Also, the
water’s much calmer compared to the other breaks we just passed to get over
here. The cliffs keep the surface chatter down to a minimum. A two-footer
breaks on the outside. Stoked, I say, “Yeah, you’re gonna catch some waves out
here.”
#
My bionic arms are no match for the small
and mooshy surf. The guys on the hill were right. This tide is making it
swampy, and this two-foot swell doesn’t stand a chance to poke through it.
Still, the sun beams down on our faces. The Vertra’s sticking to me like
mascara. The water’s still nice, the cliff’s looming overhead give us
seclusion, and the fact that no one else is in the water makes things . . .
(this is going to sound cheesy) romantic. I tie a strand of seaweed around my
head.
“Let
me tie it around you,” she says.
I don’t know what to make of this. I mean .
. . I should know. I know gawd damn well that I can tie this thing around my
head myself. She has to know this too. So here we are, floating in the water
off of our boards. She’s practically straddling me, Lamaze style, while she
ties this seaweed around me. The current moves the boards, bringing them to
near collisions but stopping short from impact. First kiss? Don’t risk it. We
go back to our boards, laughing at the crooked, green bandana on my head. We
try again.
Even though we don’t catch any waves, we
talk the whole time out there. The conversation is flowing; the energy is good,
and I’m thinking this is too good to be true.
#
I’m still bummed that we can’t paddle into
any of these waves. We go in.
We’re changing out when she says, “Oops . .
. Matt. . . . “
I look over. “Huh?”
“Ummmmm, can you help me?”
Her bikini strap came undone. Between the
folds of her wetsuit I can see the soft, young, brown, unblemished, Italian
skin. Her bikini top straps dangle off her back like candy cane ribbons. I tie
them up, making sure that they’re not too tight or too loose. It’s impossible
to avoid the back of my hand rubbing against her.
“Thanks,” she says.
After all that I’ve been through . . . maybe
it was meant to be to lead up to this.
