EVE VS MORN, SUN 29JULY2012 MOR

Location: Middles

Crew: Bri, J & Hayana

Time: 0715-0930

Conditions: 2-3 FT, warm, onshore, inconsistent.

     Initially, the whole weekend had a good rating, but Surfline downgraded Saturday to a “poor to fair” rating, leaving Sunday with the best forecast. J knew this and had his expectations up. . . . So did I.

#

     I’m the first one to wake up. The first thing I do is take a mean shit. It’s a long, unbalanced, stumbling walk to the bathrooms. I have to squint hard in the morning light. I have a bad case of bed head. Other campers pass by with the same half-dead momentum, also back from taking their morning shits. After I dump my payload, I walk to the lookout point to see the water. The wind is blowing side shore from the south west, but the surface conditions are still clean. The north edge of Old Man’s is the closest break to me, and a peaky, three-foot left peels for the crowd of longboarders. The fact that the conditions are clean is all I need to see to motivate me. Churches is far away, but I can see the white water from the rolling waves. It looks smaller than Old Mans.

     Back at the tent, Bri’s still knocked out. I tell her that I’m suiting up, and that she can sleep in if she wants. She lifts her head with her eyes still closed as I deliver my message before she rolls back over to go to sleep.

     J hears me stirring around, so he sticks his head out of his tent.

     “I’m suiting up,” I tell him.

     He goes back in the tent and has the same conversation with Hayana that I just had with Bri. He steps out his tent and starts changing too. Minutes later, Hayana is up, and Bri stumbles out of the tent as well. We have full attendance.

#

     We’re down by the sand, making the trek towards Churches, when I notice that the wind has shifted more onshore. I try to tell myself that it’s a variable wind, but really it’s just my surfer soul in denial. I feel it on the side of my face.  

     The top of the wave at Churches has a small pack of longboarders perched there during a lull, waiting for a set. When the first wave breaks, it’s lined-up, but the number of surfers eclipses the number of rides, and the main rush of surfers haven’t even arrived yet.

     The spot that we surfed last night is now dead, producing zero waves. Today had the best rating, probably still does, but I can’t see it. Lowers is breaking in the distance, and it looks like some sets are swinging wide. “J,” I say, “I’m gonna paddle out here with Bri where there’s less people. If you want, you can check out Lowers.”

     “Nah, that’s okay. We’ll surf here.”

     We paddle out at Middles, a little south of the famed Battle Positions. Some small waves roll through. J and I get into them with ease, but there’s no shape to them. Hayana gets some rides going straight, and so does Bri. Some three-foot rogue waves break on the outside, but they’re walled up. Bri goes for one of them but backs out. I don’t blame her. I’ve never taken her out on an “ankle slapper” day in her longboard training, and she’s showed her fair share of bravado, proving that she has the heart to take the beatings. We catch a couple waves together going straight. I motivate her to stand, but she falls as soon as she does. I guess it’s something that seasoned surfers take for granted after a while, and we forget what it was like when our cores couldn’t adapt to the balance act of standing.

     A longboarder chick to our north sits on a peak, getting some decent rights. J’s the first to share the peak with her. The rest of us follow, we have to if we want a wave with shape. I get a few waves with one turn at best, but they are short of memorable. The wind takes away the clean surface conditions that I saw earlier, making things choppy, taking away whatever shape was there. The spot turns off, and we end up at Battle Positions again, but everything with size still comes in walled.

     “I’m think we’re going in soon,” says J.

     I look at my watch. 0930. I had planned to surf until 1000, but . . . at this point there’s no reason to stay out longer.

     “Man, I thought it was going to be better,” says J.

#

     At camp, we cook the very last of what we have which is enough to feed all four of us. It’s a smorgasbord of grilled cheese sandwiches, eggs, sausages, salad, and extra bread. We eat comfortable for the next hour, leaving a full hour to pack before checkout at noon. 

     Tearing down the site goes well, but we use that full hour. J’s nice enough to break my off with thirty-five bucks. I tell him that it’s fine and try to push it away.

     “No,” he says. “You fed us too.”

     I thank him. 

     “Matt, come here,” says Briana from the tent.

     I walk over.

     “Look.”

     I see the red. She finally got her period. Thank you, Jesus! The mess fills me with relief, and now I’m stoked again but on a different level.

#

     The drive home is long. I have to first stop in Yorba Linda to drop off Bri. I skip Dan’s house on the way home since I have to clean his grill and cooler that I borrowed. I leave Rick’s stuff on his porch in Westchester and then finally reach my destination at home.

     I chug the remaining beers from the cooler while I unpack and play with Smokey. Time went by so fast that it feels like this weekend never happened. When everything’s clean, I take a shower and plop on my bed. It feels good to be home, but I’d still rather be in a tent near the beach.

THE GOOD WITH THE BAD, SAT 28JULY2012 EVE

Location: Churches

Crew: Bri, J & Hayana

Time: 1845-2030

Conditions: 2-3 FT, warm, light onshore, high tide, consistent.

     We don’t have an oceanfront campsite, but who cares. The alcohol is getting to me and Briana, thus making our game of cards more competitive. I’m beating her and rubbing in my victories like my homeboys used to do back in the day, over Tecmo Bowl and John Madden Football.

     “Awwww, I’m so sorry I won, baby,” I say with a smirk. I lean in for a kiss.

     “No!” She pushes me away with a smile and laughs. “Come on. One more!”

     J pulls up in his Honda Fit. I point to the other side of the campsite to park behind the tent. Briana and I walk over to greet him. I introduce Briana to Hayana and J. It’s good to see him. I haven’t seen him since the 4^th of July, and I haven’t camped or done an overnighter with him since Baja, last August. I haven’t been around Hayana much, but surfed with the both of them at Porto when they first started dating.

     While they’re unloading their stuff, Bri and I tell them we’ll be back and disappear into the tent. It’s steamy and hot in there, but we can’t help ourselves. The zipper windows are sealed for privacy in the eighty-degree weather but still cracked for some ventilation.

     While we’re going at it, we hear J approach the tent saying, “Hey look, there’s an extension chord. It’s going in the tent.” He follows the chord to the slit in the vent and takes a peek in the crack. “Hey, what’s up, guys?” He walks away in a hurry as soon as he realizes what he just saw.

     Bri turns looks down at me and gives me a look that expresses shame, embarrassment, and pissedoffededness. She mouths the words in silence, “He just saw us.”

     I wave my hand in a calming gesture and shake my head with a smirk.

#

     The sweat on my skin cools as the breeze hits me upon stepping out of the tent. J and Hayana are playing Pusoy Dos, drinking beer. They invite Bri and me to play. At first, J’s instructions on how to play make me sleepy, but once he slaps the cards in my hands, I start to have fun. When Briana returns, she joins in too. We play five games before deciding to suit up for the evening sesh.

#

     It’s high tide again, and the beach is empty just like yesterday’s evening session. Instead of apologizing for the conditions, I remain calm and appreciate the moment. The energy that J puts out is so positive. “I don’t care if it’s good,” he says, “I just wanna paddle out.” His calm demeanor reminds me of Francis a bit. I’ve said time and again that I only know a few straight-shooters in my life: Tan who I served with in the Army, Francis obviously, Tim who can never say no to help someone out, and then there’s J. He’s a random kind of guy, so optimistic and unsuspecting of people’s bad intentions that he’ll paddle right into the lineup at Venice and Porto, accidentally dropping in on people but always quick to apologize before getting mouthed-off to.

     Hayana looks at me and says, “This is amazing! No one is out here!”

     “Yeah, it was just like this yesterday,” I say.

     There’s an outside peak working at Churches’ main peak. We all paddle out. J’s the first to draw blood, which seems to be the case every time I surf with him. He catches a mooshy right. I swear there’s no way he’ll get into it, but he does. It’s too racy for turns, but he pumps and flails his arms, making it all the way to the rocks.

     “Fuckin’ Bionic J,” I say.

     Bri turns to me. “Why do you call him that?”

     I tell her the story how during our first camping trip, J was experimenting with a hand-me-down potato chip board. The thing was so tiny, even had a broken nose. I didn’t think he would be able to catch shit on that thing. All I could think about was how much smaller it was than the DMS. That day at Middles, he paddled into every wave that came his way. Hence the name, Bionic J.

     The waves are small, but they are perfect for the girls. Hayana’s got a good technique down, popping up quick on the closeouts for short rides. Briana continues to catch the waves on her belly, struggling with her balance but standing for the last couple seconds of her ride. She’s getting better.

     Even though the waves are small, some three-foot pulses push their way through. I get a right that has a tight section. I bottom turn, climb the face, and hit the lip just as it’s coming down. It was a late, critical turn. The wave was small, but it still felt good. Minutes later, I get two turns going right. My session’s made.

     J spots a peak that’s working just north of Churches. A lone surfer sits where it’s breaking by himself. I hate it when people invade my territory, so I keep my distance. The girls are off on their own, talking and doing their surfer chick thing. When the guy leaves, we all surf that spot well after the sun sets. Just like the night before, darkness grows to our south while the purple haze wanes to our north. The wind calms and the water turns glassy. But unlike the night before, Bri’s not nervous to be out here in the dark water, not in the company of friends.

#

Grub:

     We do it to ourselves again. Other campers are already huddled by their bonfires, and here we are, arriving, dripping wet. We all shower, come back, and throw some food on the propane stove. Thanks to Rick’s supplies, we don’t have to cook in the dark. Since Briana and I are on a mission not to bring any extra food back, we offer to cook as much as we can for dinner. The four of us eat together on the metal picnic table, stoked off of surf and appreciative of the meager meals before us. Tonight, I couldn’t be in better company.

     We roast some S’mores well into midnight. All of the firewood has to burn, so we milk as much heat and soak up the flames until the last log is burned. Bri and I are so tired that we fall asleep, seconds within lying down. A bad session in the morning gets balanced out with a good evening session. Today’s mission is complete.

THE PASSIVE AND THE AGGRESSIVE, SAT 28JULY2012 MOR

Location: Middles & Lowers

Crew: Bri, Khang & Dais

Time: 0830-1100

Conditions (Middles): 1-2 FT+, warm, offshore, glassy, inconsistent, empty.

Conditions (Lowers): 2-4 FT, consistent, SUPER FUCKING CROWDED!!!

     I wake up at 0645. We slept in, but I’m not bothered by the late start. After I brush my teeth I walk to the overlook and get a first glimpse of Old Mans. The surface conditions are clean, slightly offshore, but the whole San Onofre lineup is dotted with longboarders. I’m not planning to surf there anyway. I think about Rick, remembering the times he woke me up at dawn, excited, saying, “It’s offshore, Matt. We need to get on it right now.” No doubt if he was here, we’d all be in the water already, with good reason.

     Briana shifts on the mattress when I unzip the tent.

     “It’s offshore right now,” I say. “We need to get on it.” I call Khang. He and Dais are in Irvine. I tell them that I’ll meet them in the water. Briana wakes up and munches on some snacks while I change and slap on some Vertra. I’m dressed, my board is waxed, and I’m ready to go, but I stop myself from heading out. Why not just wait, I think to myself. Briana takes her time getting ready. She points out a prairie dog that just popped up from under my board. 

#

 Briana’s already met Dais and Khang, but we still walk out to greet them. Khang has his wetsuit, but I tell him that’s it’s been warm enough for a wetsuit jacket and shorts. Since he doesn’t have one, I give him my O’Neill top while I use the Hurley one that Rick let me borrow.

#

     “Look at that!” says Khang. He’s pointing at a three-foot peak that’s breaking at Churches. “Bam ! . . bam ! . . bam!”

     I laugh at his mind surfing. Two other surfers walk past us, smiling, dripping wet, heading back towards the San Onofre state parking. We can easily paddle out here, but even though it’s not packed, I know that it will be soon. Khang and Dais talk amongst themselves of the possibility of surfing Churches if nothing’s better up north.

     Briana and I stop short at Battle Positions. “We’re gonna surf here,” I say. “Check out Lowers. You never know. Something might swing wide.”

     Dais and Khang walk further north while Bri and I paddle out. There are a couple longboarders sitting by the cliffs, but we maintain our spot to keep Briana out of harm’s way. The water’s glassy and clean but inconsistent. Even though the pulses that come through are weak and don’t line up, it’s fun to surf Middles when the conditions are good. I look to see where Dais and Khang paddled out, but they’re walking back towards us. I catch a little two-foot left and hunker down, faking a barrel ride. I paddle up to them.

     “What happened?” I ask.

     “Too crowded,” says Khang.

     Middles isn’t working that well, at least not for shortboarders. Briana gets some waves, mostly on her belly, but she stands up again on a couple of waves. She’s making good progress.

     I feel bad for Khang and Dais. I didn’t promise good conditions, and I know the conditions are out of my control regardless, but they made a long drive to get out here. I wish the waves were better for them. Like me, they’re paddling into little dribblers which offer zero turns. It gets so inconsistent that even Briana opts to go back to camp, start breakfast, and do some homework.

     We can see Lowers working with guys splitting the A-frame. The thought of catching some Lowers’ scraps, sitting wide and catching some good, down-the-line rights is too irresistible. We make our way towards Lowers.

#

The Other Side of Surfing:

     There’s one guy sitting south of the Lowers’ crowd. He’s wearing a scowl. I know this look. This look tells me: “I don’t want to sit at the main peak, so I’m sitting here, but I haven’t caught shit!”

     It’s the look I dread, but not me, not today. I have to score. There’s something on my side: luck, local knowledge, my paddling ability that will get me priority. I sit a little closer to the pack, not quite where I usually sit, but there’s no choice; nothing is breaking wide.

     Two guys, an old man and a young guy, paddle past me, heading back towards Middles. “I didn’t see that guy,” the old man says. “I didn’t know he was gonna go. By the time I turned around it was too late.”

     Khang, Dais, and I hoped that this would be a good weekend to hit Lowers because the U.S. Open is going on at HB. No one would be out here, we thought. Well, if that’s the case, then forty other surfers thought the same thing. Dais sits towards the inside. Khang is next to me, just south of the main pack sitting at the top of the wave.

     “Sometimes they swing wide,” I say, “but it doesn’t seem to be happening.

     Khang is silent.

     “I’m gonna sit on the other side. Sometimes I get lucky.” I work my way through the crowd at the top of the wave. I can already sense who’s owning this spot. An old guy with long hair paddles through the lineup back to the top of the wave like a great white shark, paying no mind to the other surfers around him. It’s obvious that I’m the new guy who just showed up. I sit to the north this time, hoping for something to swing wide so I can go left. Nothing. Every wave breaks in the same spot, with the scraps only breaking further inside but not to the left or right. It’s frustrating. It’s an internal struggle the whole time. I sit at the top of the wave, sitting way on the outside. I paddle but scratch out on the waves. I’m too deep to catch them early on the Tokoro, maybe if I had the JS. Khang’s shifting in the lineup, also forced to back out of every wave.

     I don’t know what’s worse, surfing shitty waves or sitting on perfect waves without being able to ride them. I get some scraps on the inside, catching two rights, but they don’t materialize into anything because they’re too small. Every time I try to go for a wave, someone’s already on it. I’m forced to watch guys get fun, four-foot drops and then see their spray as the hit that first turn. They return from their long rides, sit back at the lineup, and do it again.

     Frustrated, I go back to the top of the wave. I’m right in the middle of the A-frame; I have priority! I paddle in, but guys are still going for it, both on my left and right. I can force the issue, go either way, but I have no idea if someone’s gonna run into me; I back out.

#

Fuck My Life:

     I’m forced to accept the fact that I’m not cut out to surf in crowds. I wonder how I managed in Bali. The most crowded spot I surfed was Burger Peak in Canggu; there were nineteen heads, but I had my brother block for me. Randy’s just good. He has the look of a shredder and can even pass for Balinese. He’d paddle for priority and say, “Go!” So I went, and I was able to catch my waves. But here . . . there are forty-plus motherfuckers. I can’t. So . . . what makes a good surfer? Is the fact that I can’t muscle my way or be aggressive enough to catch a Lowers’ wave mean that I fucking suck? I can easily say, “Oh if I surfed this place uncrowded, I’d rip on these waves,” but anyone can say that. I ponder if the ability to establish one’s dominance in the lineup is what also makes one a “good surfer.” If it is, then I suck; I’m a Barney. Crowds . . . I just can’t do it. It’s disappointing because I believe in my surfing, but here I am, punked in the lineup. I take the paddle of shame towards the inside, defeated.

#

     Once I’m on the shore, I turn around and take a look at the peak. I see some neon yellow boardshorts pumping down the line, going right. It’s Khang. At least he got one. Dais manages to work the inside, getting a right as well. They both see me on the shore and paddle in to join me.

#

     We pass Churches on the way back to camp. The onshore wind has picked up. “Yeah, I’m cool with not surfing,” says Dais.

     I’m not sure if we made the right call. Maybe we should’ve gone to Churches instead of Lowers. Oh well.

#

     I lick my wounds and move on to thinking about food. Back at the campsite, Briana’s still reading her book. I start on some sausages, eggs, and hash browns. Dais and Khang plan on meeting Klaude at the Obon festival in L.A.

     “Sorry it wasn’t that good,” I say as they’re packing up.

     “Nah, man,” says Khang, “it was fun, dude.”

     Khang . . . poor guy has never caught Trestles good, or HB. Dais has seen Trestles breaking good and so has KK. 

     Briana and I see them off and chow down on our breakfast. We whip out the drinks and play some speed. Afterwards, we head to the PX for more water and splurge out on some Sonic’s milkshakes. J’s on the way with his girlfriend Hayana. I hope that the evening session for them won’t be disappointing.