THE SECOND SHIFT, SUN 9SEPT2012 MOR

Crew: Bri

Time: 0900-1045

Conditions: 1-3 FT, hot, sunny, glassy, small, fun  .

     I had a hell of a week. Friday I had some business to handle at work, so that took me out of the game the whole day. On Saturday, I had my orientation for the master’s program for school. I was supposed to surf with Klaude, but I couldn’t get up in time, probably also because Friday was a really late night. But Sunday . . . I had to go to the temple (as Dais and KK would say).

Late:

     It’s 0800. Again, I slapped the snooze button one too many times. Bri and I have too many late night and early morning battles, which make it hard to wake up. Klaude’s there, that’s the first thing that comes to mind. He’s there. I know he is. Gotta go, gotta get there, meet him in the water, gotta get the face time.

     I’m so anxious to leave, and my attitude is turning to shit. Sadly, my girlfriend who’s not at fault is the only one there to take the brunt of it.

     “Eh, people are leaving, the lineup’s emptying out, the tide might be right.” These are the things I tell myself to justify myself for waking up late, but really . . . I know it’s not good enough. The first shift, the dawn patrol, that’s the window that I used to be dedicated to, when the wind’s dead, the sun’s low, the water’s cooler, and the company is nothing but the true locals. I missed that window. Today . . . I’m on the second shift.

     I’m right about one thing, and that’s the parking. One spot is available by the lifeguard station. SCORE! I spotted Klaude before I parked; he’s on the north side of the lot, parked in front of the houses. As soon as I shut the engine off, I run up to say hi to him. “Hey!” I say as I shuffle across the street in my flip flops. I’m waiting for it. “What’s up, dude?”

     “Yeah-uh?” he lifts his wrist and looks down at his watch. His body language says it all: I’m a piece of shit, I didn’t show up on time, we missed each other, WE MISSED EACH OTHER! I broke the secret non-homo man bond of surfing. Be on time, be where you say you’re gonna be, and now . . . he must go the rest of the day without me. I don’t blame him.

     “I’m sorry,” I say. Of course, there’s no bitching or wining going on. He’s changing, prepping to leave, and I’m explaining the circumstances of getting up late.

     “I’ve been here since like six-thirty,” he says.

     “Was it better earlier?”

     He looks through his circle rimmed sunglasses at the ocean and laughs. “Haha no! I think it’s actually better right now. You might have fun.”

     “I brought the fish.”

     “Today’s a good day for the fish.”

     Back at the car, Bri and I change. It’s not gonna be a power session, more of a paddle out for the sake of getting wet session. Zero expectations whether I go straight or down the line. It will be a mellow surf.

     Bri and I say by to Klaude on the way out. By now the sun is shining bright over the sand, the towers, and the ocean. It’s a typical South Bay dream. I see the old lady who wears a blue hat and rides a blue and white Costco foamie. Miles is there, popping up, taking off on a right. I swear, every time I look towards the ocean, if it’s local or Churches, I see Miles going right—it never fails. It’s mostly longboarders out, and there’s a lull at the moment. Everyone’s sitting on the inside. We move south of the tower where the crowd’s a little thin, but not thin enough. I turn towards Briana and say, “Well, it’s a little crowded this morning, so . . . just be mindful of the crowd. Be careful, okay?”

     She assures me that she’ll be all right. I was hoping there wouldn’t be this many people here, but the second shift started early, so we’re late for this window too.

ZIP ZIP ZIP:

     I’m trunking it. The water’s so clear. One wouldn’t think that L.A. water would appear so clean, but a wise man once said, “It’s the things you can’t see that you need to worry about.” Well, we haven’t had rain in a while, and I don’t even bother to think about when it WILL start raining. That first, heavy winter rain is gonna be a bitch. There’s gonna be dog shit, tampons, and motor oil everywhere!

     So we sit . . . and we wait. Some little bumps start rolling in. I turn and I paddle. My first wave is only two-feet, but godammit if Zippy ain’t the right board for it. I even out-advantage Briana because 26^th isn’t as mooshy as Old Mans, and even at two feet the wave stands up a little more. Oddly enough, the South Bay can be good on a high tide, and behind this two-foot wave is the volume of the ocean behind it, creating a fun little slab. I barely have to make an effort to get through the flats. I can’t praise this board enough for what it can do on small, small days.

     I get to the end section fast enough before it closes out, attempting a finishing carve on the shoulder before it crumbles away. That’s my only complaint; I just can’t get loose on this thing, but . . . that could be an “operator error” (most likely is). Zippy’s great, but it’s a lot of meat to work with.

     Despite the crowd, Bri is getting waves too, just not going down the line. I’ve said before how much she’s progressed faster than I, and I know exactly where she’s at. She’s at the “going straight” stage of her surfing, where eventually she’ll get tired of it and desire to go down the line.

     None of my rides are worth being ingrained in my mind, but for a quick-fix to just get wet, I’m already getting more than I bargained for. I’m getting more than the second shift noobs. They either scratch out or just let the waves go by. I sit slightly inside of them, turn, kick, paddle, and I’m up just like that. Down the line. It’s a buffet of mini waves.

     When I paddle back to the lineup, Bri says, “That guy over there watched you catch that last wave then turned to me and said, ‘He makes it look so easy.’”

     I’m the Board Short Mamba this morning.

     When we leave, it’s still a magnificent day. The height of the sun is the only thing that’s changed. The ocean’s just as beautiful, the wind just as calm, the air and the sand just as warm. We may have missed Klaude in the morning, but we still caught a good window on the second shift.

26TH ST. MAFIA, SUN 2SEPT2012 MOR

Crew: KK & Dais

Conditions: 2-3 FT, hot, sunny, glassy, dumpy, inconsistent, still fun

     I can easily take the morning off since I’m home now. Why not? The South Bay isn’t catching any of this south swell. It can’t be that great local, maybe one-to-two feet or something like that, but Klaude’s gonna be out there. He didn’t have the opportunity to join us on the Trestles run. What would Francis do? He’d spread the aloha. As I’ve said before and I’ll say it again a million more times: it’s not always about the surf but about the company.

#

     I haven’t been surfing local much this summer. As I’m walking down the hill, I see a surfer doing a familiar warm up: bending forward, rapidly swinging his arms like he’s sprinting, legs in place. It’s Klaude. He paddles out before I can reach him. All the regulars are out, some I don’t know the names of, but the faces are undeniable, local, mellow, veteran rippers of this spot. Don K. for one and then there’s Roy. I see Uncle Miles too. Shit . . . I just saw Miles yesterday going down the line on a big right at Churches. Since the waves are supposed to be flat, I have the Zippy with me. I paddle out, and Klaude’s surprised to see me. He’s damn near blind, so sneaking up on him is too easy. He tells me about Zeroes, and how it wasn’t that great. Little, mooshy, two foot waves are coming in. I catch them easy with the Zippy, but the rides are short. No turns, just a few shoulders, all trimming. KK’s surprised to see me on a fish. I tell him all about my recent “fish experience” and how it’s respawned my love for surfing small waves.

     Something odd happens with the tide shift. It should be getting more mooshy with the rising tide, but the waves start standing up more. Clean, dumpy three-foot closeouts make the inside hard to get through. There are still some shoulders in the mix. I paddle and slide into a wave, but I purl. I purl again on the next wave. Surprisingly, the drops are getting too critical for Zippy. I need more rocker.

     I head back to the wagon to grab the Tokoro. Two old timers watch me as I cross the walk/run path. “That’s an old school board,” says one.

     “Yeah, it’s fun, but it’s standing up a little more now. Gonna swap boards.” I smile.

      I’m heading back towards the water when someone yells my name. I look towards the parking lot. It’s Dais. I tell him that KK’s here.

     The peak in front of the 26^th St. tower’s starting to work. More people congregate toward its peak, especially the groms. KK points out one of the kids and says, “He was at Churches too yesterday.”

     “Oh yeah?” I say to the kid, “I was there too. I saw Miles out there.”

     “Yeah, I was with him,” says the kid (sorry, forgot his name). He paddles into a left.

     “Watch this,” says Klaude. “Pump, pump . . . air.”

     The kid doesn’t punt, but he just about breaks the fins loose one the finishing move.

     I see Don going left. The wave’s dumpy, it’s gonna closeout, but the lip is throwing out, giving a hollow slot in the pocket. It would be suicide, but the barrel is there. Pull in, get a couple seconds of tube time, and then eat shit. Don wisely stays outside of the lip, going into the flats. Safe.

     It’s getting hard to catch a wave. I have “fish hangover.” Again, the Tokoro feels like a toothpick, leafy in the water. The nose looks unnecessarily thin. How can this craft possibly be floating me? My brother warned me about surfing a fish before I’ve nailed my shortboard surfing. “You’ll pick up bad habits,” he said.

     The second half of the session isn’t very eventful, but the next wave clears all the surfers away from my perimeter, alone to catch the next wave. It looks like a nice, shouldery left as I pop up, but the section ahead starts to build and double up. I pump down the line before the whole wave turns into a wall. Since I have good speed, from the midline I climb the face, extend my arms, reach behind my right shoulder, and whip the board around in a grinding carve back to mid face. I redirect, try it again, but my line is too high, and I get stuck on the second turn. Back at the lineup, KK paddles up and says, “I saw that.” He said something else, but I can’t recall. Something about me turning with power and that I’m like a bear. . . ? After that wave, I try to get another duplicate ride, but it doesn’t happen.

     The three of us head back to the lot and receive some gifts from Dais. They are planning breakfast. I’d love to join them, but I got homework to do. I need balance. 

     Back at the house, I dig into my books, with the sensation of that one turn ingrained in my mind. I love fishes, but they don’t turn quite like thrusters.

SWELL OF THE SUMMER PT.II (double sesh), SAT 1SEPT2012 EVE

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. . . .