LOCAL DELIVERY, SAT 21JULY2012 MOR

Crew: KK

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT, semi-consistent, onshore, warm, peaky.

     Surfline said the forecast was going to be 1-3 FT, poor conditions. I pushed a breath out my nostrils and thought about other things I could do on Saturday morning. KK shot me a text, asking me what my plans were. Despite the negative forecast, he said he’d be surfing local. I thought about it. It would truly be a session just to hang out with a friend, with weak dribblers close to shore. It was one of those decisions that defines friendships. To surf or not to surf, that is the question.

#

     Morning sex . . . it really works out this morning because now I’m up early when I can eat a small breakfast, take my time packing, and still make it to Manhattan Beach at a reasonable time. Since Briana has a lot of reading to do for school, she comes along to do her homework on the sand. This morning isn’t as warm as yesterday. HB was already seventy degrees, but at 0600 it’s still sixty-five. I look at Briana and say, “Yup, it’s definitely gonna be a wetsuit day.” I pull off my 3/2 Rip Curl wetsuit off the hanger in the backyard.

     I don’t bother looking for street parking because I don’t expect to stay past 0800. Today’s board selection is the JS, my longboard. Even though it’s a 6’3, it’s pretty meaty and easy to catch waves on. I don’t like to use it anymore because it feels corky and sluggish on the turns, but for weak surf it’s my best option.

     We reach the sand. Klaude’s still on his way. Briana sets up shop with her beach blanket while I warm up. To my surprise, the breaks around 26^th Street are sprouting random peaks, even to the north and the south. I’m thinking that this might actually be fun. The wind is already on it, but the peaks are still pushing through, soft but lined-up. The usual vets are out there: Don, Ross, Roy, and company. I give Bri a kiss and paddle out.

     The water’s nice and warm like yesterday, but still cool enough to warrant a wetsuit. The inside is consistent with torrents of white wash, but I still manage to push through. The main peak is crowded, so I sit to the north.

     My first right comes. Even though it’s a weak wave, just under three feet, it lines up towards the inside. I pump, bottom turn, and try to hit the lip, but my backside hack has no power to it; it ends up being more of a check stall. I try again, same results. I used to be able to get decent turns on this board, but it’s a different feeling from the DMS and the even chippier Tokoro, but I’m still grateful for the wave.

     When I kick-out it puts me at the main peak. Just then, an outside wave forms, a solid three-footer, and I’m in prime position. I lower my chin and paddle into it. I shouldn’t be making this drop, but the JS is so easy to catch waves on. The rastafarian Orlando backs out as I go left. It’s lined up perfectly, but I’m too far up on my board when I pump, purling it into the face and falling. The wipeout goes down on the list of perfectly blown waves. Silence follows as I resurface. The other surfers won’t even look my way, a confirmation that they witnessed my debacle. I’m ashamed; I can’t help it. I crawl back on my board and paddle north to sit at another peak.

#

     Roy’s wearing his wetsuit. I can overhear him talking about how hot it is. He disappears and returns ten minutes later, trunking it. I’m like, “Fuck this.” I catch a wave in. Just as I reach the inside, I see Klaude making his way out. I tell him that I’m changing out into my boardshorts. He follows suit.

     Back on the sand, we walk towards Briana who’s lying on her stomach, wearing black work out pants, a black shirt, and a white DC beanie. I finally get to introduce them to each other. I’m doing my best to really cut down on my list of friends, no more flakes or bullshitters, only accountable people from now on. I’m saying this because I’m stoked for Briana to meet all my real people.

     I throw on my Hurley Phantoms which double as walking shorts. KK has his multicolored rainbow . . . I-have-no-idea-what-brand shorts and Rip Curl wetsuit jacket.

#

     Once we’re back in the lineup, he goes through his morning greetings with all the locals. I don’t know them as well as KK does, but I hope that surfing with him has got me some local points too.

     It doesn’t take long before we both catch some waves. Even though it’s semi crowded, we manage to get a good handful of rides. Klaude gets a really good left. He catches it right on the peak because I duckdive it on the shoulder. When I turn around he’s gone. Further down the wave, he’s skylining over the lip. The look on his face is serious, and I can tell that he’s pumping and trimming, making all of his sections and going down the line. Roy paddles over the shoulder as KK passes him. He takes the wave all the way to shore.

     I need to get me one of those; it’s the only thing on my mind. I paddle where KK was sitting and get a couple fun rides. Every time I try to work my way towards Klaude to congratulate him, another set comes and disperses everyone. When I finally do reach him, he catches another wave.

#

     I’m left out the back with a small crowd when the next set comes. I scratch for the first wave, but someone’s on my inside. I glance out towards the back and see the second wave building. I’m all alone. I paddle out to meet it and swing around, almost positioning myself too far on the outside to catch it. I’m stroking and kicking for what seems like a long time, still not sliding down.

     I hear KK yell, “Go, Matt!”

     I finally get the drop going right, directly in front of Klaude and Roy who are paddling towards me. I pop-up, wipe the water off of my face, draw a line to avoid them, and set up my bottom turn. Even though the JS is sluggish, I extend my arms and climb the face, grinding out a turn just under the lip. It feels slow but fluid; I’m beyond stoked, served with the sensation that fuels my surfing addiction. I set myself up for another top turn before the ride ends.

     When I paddle back, KK looks at me. He’s blind, but if he can in fact see me, he’s looking at a huge smile on my brown smudge of a face.

     I reach him. “Everyone was hooting for you on that one,” he says.

     We comment at how surprised we are at the surf conditions. Surfline is off.

     I get another standout wave going left. The section’s about to close in front of me, but I manage to draw a highline, building speed as I come down with the section. It’s a long wave, and it turns small and rampy at the end where I do another layback-snap attempt. The turn feels good. The tail gets loose as I do it, but I again fail to recover when I layback.

#

     Back at the peak, KK and I discuss how long we want to stay out here. “What do you think?” he asks.

     “Shit . . .” I look at my watch, “at least another hour. It’s so good now.”

#

     Fifteen minutes later, Klaude is looking in my direction over the small crowd of surfers, laughing into the air. I paddle over. “You know what I’m thinking?” he says.

     “What?”

     “We jinxed it.”

     I hate to say it . . . but he’s right. After I commented on how good it was earlier, the tide just drowned the whole break out, and the wind made conditions even choppier. I struggle for my last wave but eventually get a closeout to shore. I look back and throw a shaka at Klaude. I’m out.

     Roy’s done rinsing off at the showers. He throws me a shaka and says, “Laters, Matt!”

     I throw one back. Turns out he’s a nice guy after all.

#

     This session made me wonder. Here I’ve been, going all the way to HB just because of Surfline’s forecasts and ratings. Meanwhile here in the South Bay, the surf may not be big, but it’s rippable and fun. It reminded me of back in the day when I used to surf nothing but Porto. I didn’t even know a surf forecast existed, and I swear I had the most consecutive, stoked sessions in my life during those times. I guess Surfline can’t predict everything, and even though south facing beaches are only a drive away, sometimes the surf is still good in your own backyard, despite what the experts say. Not only was the surf good, but it was good scoring it with a friend. The consistent and reliable Klaude, another one of the new Francises.

AKA SKUNKY BREWSTER, FRI 20JULY2012 MOR

Loc: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT, consistent, low to mid tide, clean, sunny, warm, walled.

     Briana went home after work on Thursday, so as to give me some quality time with my cousin Sherwin. I picked him up from LAX at 2245, and thank goodness he flew United because I was able to skip all the other terminals and made the immediate left to his baggage claim. I wanted to take him to BJ’s Pizza for happy hour, but it was already running late. It’s the same every time I see him. Despite being apart for two years, it’s like I just saw him yesterday.

     “Couz,” I said, “I got food at the house. I’m gonna cook.”

     “I like In-N-Out. I get’m.” He smiled, revealing his top snaggle tooth on the left side. “I’ll get one for Manolo too. It’s the least I can do.”

     “You sure?” I realized that there’s no In-N-Out in Oahu, and as tired as I am of In-N-Out, this was a rare opportunity for him.

     He caught up with Manolo back at the house, and when Manolo went to bed, we stayed up and talked a little longer. Instantly I was brought back to the days of our childhood, being a freshman in high school, when my grandparents would drive over every other night to talk story with his grandma, my grandma’s sister. Sherwin and I would walk through Pualu place, a small subdivision in Napili off of the Honoapiilani Hwy. The smell of pineapple fields, soil, and mountain moisture filled the air. We talked about girls from school, prayed for pussy, and wondered why they were doing in their houses with the lights on. Years later, here we are on my couch as grown as men, still talking about pussy. I set the couch for him.

#

     I go to sleep at 0115 and set my alarm for 0430. I hit the snooze a couple times, losing the all-importance of Sherwin’s flight at exactly 0600. There’s a knock at the door. It’s 0445. “Shit.” I open the door. “Sorry, couz. Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in a second.” My car is pre-packed with my surf gear, except my hot water bottles. I get him to the airport at 0515. He’s in a rush, carrying a laptop bag and a map case for his seminar. We hug.

     “Couz, if you like, come San Diego. I get the room.”

     I smile and tell him to text me so I know he made the flight on time.

     It’s still dark on the way to HB. My cousin’s layover actually fits perfectly for today’s plans. According to Surfline, there’s 2-3 FT swell in north OC, green rating. I called Cheryl yesterday, but she had to work. Khang’s still out from tattoo recovery. I contemplated on calling Shan but said “fuck it” on account of how flakey he is. Over it. This morning is strictly a solo session, and if the conditions are right, this could be a good score, like back in the Fran-Saucian times.

#

     Someone on my blog recommended exiting Bolsa Chica and taking the coastal route to HB, so I give it a shot. I take Bolsa too far, so I have to U-turn and take Warner to PCH. The drive seems out of the way, but I can see why this route is worth it. I can see the waves breaking at Bolsa to give me a sneak preview of what to expect. It’s small. Dog Beach is small too, but when I reach Golden West, the peaks are significantly bigger.

     When I pull into the state lot, I park and take a shit at the porta potty. Of course, someone took a piss all over the seat. Piss drips from my ass cheeks as I pull my shorts up. Okay, that was a joke. I wiped the piss. 

     I figure I’ll get some pics for my blog, so I head to the water. The tide’s really low, but some small peaks are punching through. The perfect window, I’m thinking. I love catching the window as it’s turning good, and even though it’s shitty now, I have a feeling that this spot will turn on once the tide fills in. 

     It’s already seventy degrees, and it’s not even 0630 yet, so I decide on a rashguard with trunks. I take my time warming up. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the wind is swinging south from the offshore, but it’s still faint. Only a few heads are by the river jetties, and one guy is out in front of me. I brace for the cold as I get ankle deep, but to my surprise the water is warm. Even when I start paddling to full submersion, the temp is easy to deal with. From there I sit and wait.

     I scratch for some little two footers, but I can’t get into them. I miss a three foot wave on the outside and duckdive it. The other guy sharing the break has a couple waves under his belt, and I have nothing.

     My first wave is a closeout, and upon dismounting my board I find myself in shallow water. What’s disturbing is the shape. The sets look peaky, but right when they stand, more sections build on both sides, forcing them to closeout. More tide. We just need more tide.

Wave of the Day:

     About forty-five minutes into the session, a lone peak forms on the outside. It looks classic, the way that HB is supposed to break. It’s not tall, but it’s a small bump that will morph into something else once it hits the sand bar. I paddle out to meet it, swing around, and accidentally put myself right under the peak. HB is so pitchy that I usually like to take the shoulder. It jacks up so fast that I barely pop-up in time, almost purling. I bottom turn and climb the face, but the speed and size surprises me; it’s a solid four-footer. I should be posturing my body to crank out a turn and shifting my weight to push the tail and rail into the face, but I’m slow. Instead I trim my board into a high line, drop back in, turn at mid-face, and end the ride with a baby-carve at the dissolving shoulder. I don’t know what it is. Whether rust or inactivity, I should have rode that wave better.

“FUUUUCK!”:

     That’s what the guy yells out who’s surfing next to me, regardless of whether I’m there or not. I saw the whole thing. He paddled for a two-footer and scratched out, yelled “FUUUUCK!” and splashed the water around him. I thought this only happens at Porto. I understand his frustration. Even though the sets are rolling in, they are walled. The shoulders all the way at the end are still sprouting new sections into the shallows that wall-up and closeout.

     I fight the current to stay in front of my designated tower, but I eventually give in because my spot’s not working anyway. It’s a sad case. The conditions are perfect, perfect summer weather all around. Even the south wind isn’t messing things up, but the waves, the waves just don’t want to come in single, down-the-line peaks. I catch a closeout and call it a morning.

     So the void of not having a good session in a while continues, with my session at Zeroes being my best one as of late, about two weekends ago. I don’t know what it will take or what kind of sacrifices to the surf gods I’ll have to make, but I’m due up for another turnfest . . . actually. I know what sacrifices I’ll have to make. Balance.

SEARCH, TUE 17JULY2012 EVE

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Solo

Time: 1800-1930

Conditions: 3 FT, occasional plus sets, high tide, inconsistent, strong onshore, victory at sea.

Pre Blog:

     I missed this entire south swell. This isn’t like me. Usually I’m packed up and on the road early in the morning, at least heading to HB if not Trestles or O-Side. I can only imagine what this is doing to my surfing. It’s a sacrifice for my new relationship and being in the “honeymoon” phase, but I know that some man-time and surf trips must be in order soon. Even though I’m happy to have Briana in my life, I need to restore some balance. The waves are a huge part of what makes me who I am, and the last thing I want is to be someone else.

The Hunt:

     I drop Briana off at work and head south on the 5 towards HB. I meant to surf the last two mornings but couldn’t get up in time, but I’m stoked to see if I can get a good evening sesh. As I approach the state parking lot, I can see some flags and banners blowing hard from the onshore wind. When I park and step out, the wind doesn’t feel too bad. It’s a clear, sunny, summer day. I throw on my Jimmy Miller Foundation trucker hat and glasses and head towards the water. The sun warms the air around me as well as the sand that I walk on. Families sit around the fire pits, and beachgoers lie out on the sand. This is summer in the OC. Explosions of white water can be seen in the distance, but they are breaking in one long line. My fears are confirmed once I can see the break. There is size; that’s not an issue. The inside is consistent, and the marble foam is swirling and pushing fast to the north. I can’t see a surfer all the way from River Jetties to where I’m standing. At Magnolia, I see one guy paddling out. The waves are an easy five feet, long, walled, and fast. I eye a possible shoulder but know that I’d be at the next tower down by the time I reached the lineup. I do an internal debate. I want to paddle out, but it’s a bad sign if no other surfers are around. I can ask the lifeguard what he thinks, but I don’t. Still, waves are coming in fast and racy. The shoulder might be manageable if I can pop up quick enough and just pump. After fifteen minutes of contemplating, I head back to the wagon.

The Search:

     I call Rick and ask for suggestions. He says to check out Dog Beach or Bolsa. I haven’t surfed Bolsa Chica in years. My brother took me there twice in order to break me in, before surfing HB.

#

     The other breaks along PCH look the same. A guy paddles over a wave at the pier, visible over the bike path that parallels the highway. Surfers are sparse and spread so far apart that there isn’t an obvious pack anywhere.

Los Desperados:

     When I reach Bolsa Chica, I park at different towers to see what the breaks look like, but they are all the same: choppy and blown out. The only difference here is the size; it’s maybe a foot smaller, possibly reducing the current. I park at the northern most part of the lot. Four guys are by the river mouth. Even though the waves look like shit, there must be something out there worth paddling out for.

     As I change, a surfer returns to the car next to me. “How was it?” I ask.

     “Terrible. I didn’t catch one wave.”

     It’s not the news I wanna hear, but . . . I’ve already made this commitment to be out here. There’s no turning back now.

     Another surfer in the truck next to me says that he caught some fun ones, but that the current is brutal. “I started at Seapoint,” he says. “I got out at the tower,” he points north, “and I made three rounds back.”

     At least this guy sounds optimistic. I head to the water and start my warm up. There are a lot of fishermen lining the shore. A longboarder waits by the rocks for a lull. I run in, gaining momentum to start my paddle out.

     The current has me going north, half way to the next lifeguard tower by the time I’m passed the impact zone. The wind and chop is so strong the tops of the waves are parted into chocolate chip shaped swirls. The plus sets are long walls. I catch a couple closeouts, bringing myself further north with each wave. Fight the current, I think to myself. A couple other surfers drift towards me. When I work my way back south, it’s like I have bionic paddling since the current sweeps them away at the same time. I hold position for a while until I look back and see how fast I’m moving. It’s useless.

Waves:

     I get a closeout that reforms towards the inside into a little two-foot left. It’s more like a long, rampy section, so I pump down the line and attempt a layback snap. I don’t recover from the maneuver, but it’s still fun to practice it.

     On a set wave, I’m actually in position for the shoulder. I bottom turn and set up for an off-the-lip carve before the section runs away. It feels good.

     The tide rises and makes things swampy for the rest of the session. A longboarder paddles out where I am. He’s floundering on his board, struggling to find the sweet spot. I paddle south to fight the current for a bit. When I turn around he’s far away. Ten minutes later, he’s out of the water. Looking towards Seapoint, I can’t see anyone else in the water. I think about the fun, onshore, evening sessions at Porto, where peaks randomly sprout up for a fun couple of turns. This is not the situation. In the face of the onshore gusts, I wonder if this is a throw-away session.

     I head back to the car, change, and grab my camera for a couple sunset shots. One lone surfer on a red funboard sits in the water by himself, bobbing and drifting further north. His girlfriend walks along the sand, trying to keep up with him.

#

     Good waves and fun sessions can never be guaranteed. When I first pulled up to surf, I figured that those guys out in the lineup knew something I didn’t. They did. The truly addicted will always paddle out. Rain or shine, onshore or off, calm or stormy, the sensation of being on a wave is both paramount and irreplaceable. Those guys know this spot and knew what they were getting into as soon as they pulled into the lot, maybe before they even left the house. Still, they suited up and went out there, despite the quality of waves. Quality was never an issue. Standing tall on your board and going down the line, regardless of how short a ride, are all the things that matter.