Location:
Old Mans
Crew: Bec
& CC
Conditions:
5 FT, sunny, light onshore, warm, slopey, consistent, FUN!
BUM:
Poor Rick . . . I can see what he goes
through. He and I are the only penises left behind. Rick’s wife, two daughters,
his daughter’s friend, CC, and Bec fill the air with an estrogenic ambience.
Food coma . . . it has me in its grips.
After being around the female circle at the picnic table, I go to Rick’s beach
chair that he set up under his Hurley umbrella. I have a book to read for
school, so it’s a good idea to just relax and get some work done.
The wind keeps getting stronger and
stronger, and minutes later a huge fucking gust plucks the umbrella out of the
sand like it’s a decoration from a Mai Tai drink. I have no idea why this keeps
on happening to me when I’m with Rick. His wife was just sitting here fifteen
minutes ago and this shit didn’t happen to her. The sun hits me in an instant.
I reach for the umbrella, but by the time my hand releases my book, it’s
already flown into the picnic table full of campers next door. I look back,
hoping that Rick is nearby. . . . NADA. I’m hoping that his wife or one of the
girls will take the blame for it this time . . . . No dice. I walk up, ready
for the glares and hard looks that say, “You fuckin’ piece of shit who can’t
keep hold of his own umbrella, damn you!”
I approach cautiously, like a man who accidentally
farted on someone’s salad. “Sorry,” I say, “The wind—”
“It happens,” says the red head with a
smile.
I’m shocked. Either way . . . Rick . . .
You owe me.
When Rick comes back I tell him what
happened. Minutes later, the same family that the umbrella ran into loses their
whole fucking EZ UP, causing chaos at their
campers next door. Amongst the legs kicking up sand, turned heads of people all
around, and scrambling of arms to secure the kite-like beast, Rick and I give
each other a glance, not stirring a muscle. Amateurs. . . .
#
CC and Bec lie out on the sand. It’s nappy
poo time. AKA nappily-poopskie. I climb in the back of my wagon and fall asleep
with the rear hatch open. People walk by the road stop and peer in at the site
of my eagle-claw feet hanging over the bumper. I wish they’d just leave me
alone. Every time I begin to fade out I hear, “Dude, check that out,” or, “Oh
my, Honey, look.”
Yes,
yes, can’t a brown munkee get some rest?!
CHURCHES OR
OLD MANS?:
It’s 1600, so I know that a decision has to
be made whether or not we’re paddling out again. . . . Actually, I stand
corrected. There’s no way I’m not paddling out again, but where? Lowers can be
so fun in the evening when the crowds thin out, but looking north towards
Churches and a faint part of middles, it looks windy and unappetizing. Churches
is mostly closeouts, with only the southern peak working, since it peels off of
the formation of cobblestones like a point . . . but that’s only one “right.”
Black dots litter the inside. It’s a lot of competition for one wave.
“You should go out over here,” says Rick.
He points to Old Mans. We’re closer to it than we are from Churches, but it
looks smaller, four-feet and messy. “Here, you can use my fish.” He motions his
head towards the yellow Zamora next to his van, by the bushes. The wind hasn’t
died, so it’s not worth the trek.
FLYING
BANANA:
I tell Bec and CC that I’d like to just hit
up Old Mans. I mean, it’s right there conveniently close to camp. I grab my
shorts.
“I’m gonna freeze,” says Bec. She’s
reaching for CC’s spring suit that she used in the morning. “You aren’t gonna
use your wettie are you?”
I’m dumbfounded. “Oh! My wetsuit?” She
smiles as she nods. “No, no, go for it. Here . . .” I shuffle through the
hangers on the EZ UP, making sure I give her the right one. She still wears a
rashguard underneath it. Poor thing, surfing nothing but the tropics to this.
It was a mistake to use the Tokoro this
morning on two levels. There was too much size and the waves were too mushy.
Maybe the JS would’ve been good, especially to paddle around with all that
water movement.
“Try out my fish,” says Rick.
He’s gotten smarter over the years. He
doesn’t force it on me or give me the “you need a board for California waves
lecture,” the lecture that leaves me explaining how I want to get my
fundamentals down first, throwing out my brother’s name, followed by Rick going
over the names of buddies who’ve converted to fishes: Gary C, Dave T, and so
on. “Try out my fish,” he said. When he did, he didn’t even look at me, avoided
eye contact in a sly manner despite his mind’s eye staring right at me. Welcoming,
harmless, full of purpose.
“Just try it out. I have to make a
commissary run with the girls anyway. We’ll swap out when I come back.”
Sounds reasonable enough. I stop waxing the
JS and leave it by the picnic table. The Zamora has tighter dimensions than the
Zippy: shorter, tapered tail for looser turns, and just a hair more rocker.
CC and I move out ahead of Bec. The thin
crowd at Old Mans tells me something, it’s saying, “The waves suck, no one’s
out, can’t you tell? There’s barely anyone here?” Deeper into Old Mans only a
few heads are out. It’s kind of like Churches; the waves are breaking and
peeling off best where the cobblestones make the point, nothing’s lining up at
the center sections.
The Zamora feels smooth and easy, gliding
me across the water, maybe a hair slower than Zippy but I can still feel the
meat on this board. The waves are bigger in person than from the campsite. A
line rises in the horizon. It’s the first wave of a five-foot set. I haven’t
used a fish in anything bigger than four-feet before, so I’m expecting a
pounding, but I’m surprised how my duckdives are working. Instead of the volume
being an issue, it actually helps when I resurface, like a buoyant cork forcing
me back to the surface quicker.
The set is long; it takes a while before I
make it to the outside. The large Oreo shake I had earlier is knocking, upset
that I’m disturbing its slumber. Then . . . I wait.
#
It shouldn’t be this easy. There are five
other guys here. None are on short boards, only long or medium/fun sized boards,
but no one wants to sit at the top of the wave, everyone sits further down the
line where it’s gonna end up peeling.
A bump on the surface appears, a juicy one.
I have prime position, so I paddle deeper than everyone so I can get on it
first. I paddle into it, but as soon as I look down the line, I can see that
the section’s walling up. I straighten out. I now see why no one wants to sit
deep.
I’m picky for the next wave, something with
a shoulder. Another one comes, and this time the bump is tapering; I know it’s
gonna line up. Again, I’m deep . . . no one wants to go deep. The bump morphs
into a five-to-six foot wave, but it’s mooshy. However, despite the moosh, the
long period swell has given it some speed and power. The Zamora . . . I have no
idea how the JS would be performing on this wave, but I get into it so easy,
pop up right before the lip breaks, pump on the highline, and then set myself
up for the drop. Guys on the inside want to go, but they see me. One guy
doesn’t want to give up. I give a loud, “WOOOOOOOH!” and he backs off. Since
the wave’s mooshy, I stay pumping at the mid line waiting for the section to
stand up a little bit more before I climb the face for a top turn. I hit the
lip the first time. BAM! Zamora’s looser than the Zippy. I feel like I’m skate
boarding, pumping, climbing, hitting the lip. It’s a three turn left, a good
way to start the session.
#
It takes a while for CC to make it out, and
I don’t blame her. The sets come in walled and break way on the outside,
leaving a rushing mountain of white wash for everyone. Even I get a little
winded to stay in place. Bec makes it out too on Rick’s Spyder board.
“I feel like I’m stuck,” she says. “The
water out here’s different. Less buoyant.”
It’s funny to hear her perspective. Of
course, I can’t tell the difference. She still manages to catch a lot of waves.
The funny thing is that I’m beyond stoked for a day like this, but she’s just
surfed all around Indo, El Salvador, and Costa. This is probably the smallest
surf she’s encountered in months!
CC gets waves too, but each wave comes with
a price, and that’s the battle in the impact zone.
#
When the sun goes down, CC and Bec head in,
but I stay out a longer. The wind dies, more people come out noticing the good
window. I have a little more competition, but I feel so good, so confident;
it’s just so easy to catch waves on this fish; I feel as if I can get any wave
I want.
I stick to my same tactic: sit deep,
further out, and wait for the big ones. The session turns into a buffet. I get
caught behind the section on a couple waves, but not on most. I paddle in deep.
After the drop, I see people watching me on my top turn, checking to see if I
actually made it. A goofy footer's dream: mooshy but long powerful lefts all
the way to shore.
GREED:
I’m only sticking these drops because of
San O’s mooshy tendency. If the wave was more critical, say HB, then I’d be
fucked. I definitely would need an aggressive rocker, JS or Tokoro.
I slide down a wave, bottom turn, and see
that one of the surfer’s has dropped in on me. I hate snakes. I don’t snake
people (unless it’s an accident) but this guy’s been out here for a while; I
know he saw me paddle into this. I scoot up close, right behind him. I should
be a surf videographer I’m so close. “Yeah, brah, just fuckin’ go,” I say. I’m
still trailing him.
He climbs the face and hits the lip,
unleashing a worthy bucket out the back. He straightens up, throws up two
middle fingers in claiming the wave before falling in the water.
Did I see two middle fingers? Was it
directed at me? I’m pissed that I got dropped in on. I look back. The guy’s
getting out of the water. Only much later does it occur to me that I was
catching a lot of waves. Maybe I was too greedy?
It’s not worth fighting over. I head back
to the lineup. There are only three guys out. The sun’s well below the Horizon.
The sky to the south east is turning purple, and random lights in the hills shine
like stars. The sky to the North West is now a dark orange.
#
A wave comes directly to me. As I’m
dropping in I can barely see the face; it’s just looks like dark marble with
the white disturbance on the lip. I check turn off the top then drop back in
with speed. The wave stands up a little more on the inside. I get deeper bottom
turns, climbing the face at sharper angles. Two, three, my fourth turn is at
the end of the wave where the shoulder tapers off. I grind it, extending my
arms and pushing the tail in. No, it’s not as loose as my thrusters, but it’s
looser than the last fish I rode, either way . . . it’s four turns.
I cash in my chips. I’m done. D-U-N. What a
last wave. Back at the campsite, Rick says he decided to stay with his family,
so that’s why he didn’t come out to swap boards. I’m stoked, describing all my
rides, telling him how the Zamora worked so well. “Good, good,” he says. “We
got hot dogs for you, Matt. Help yourself.”
Everyone’s around the bonfire. I can’t
resist the offer. Bec and CC roast some S’mores. We stay until the kids are put
to bed and his wife is in the tent. How lucky, how blessed I am to have these
people as my company, my friends. . . . I don’t know what else to say. . . .
