DESPITE THE FORECAST, FRI 19OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Bri

Time: 0845-1030

Conditions: 3 FT, sunny, warm, empty, onshore, walled with some random peaks.

     Klaude texted me last night, saying that he got the day off and would be surfing local. I lay in bed, switching the forecasts between El Porto and Southside Huntington Pier. I even go on magicseaweed.com to compare the wind forecast. HB will have more wind but the South Bay will be smaller. What to do?

#

     Briana has work today, so a Staycation Friday is out of the question. Klaude calls. He says he’s at Porto, but it doesn’t look too good so he’s on his way to 26^th. I tell him that I’m debating on Huntington or local.

     “Surf local” he says. “Save the drive.”

     I contemplate. . . . I never get to surf with KK during the week. Sometimes Manhattan Beach is good, despite the reports.

#

     Bri and I load everything up. I keep the NSP longboard inside the wagon because I don’t feel like messing with the surf straps; we ride taxi-cab-confessions style. I spot Klaude’s van at the metered lots and park next to him. Bri and I step out. There’s a lull. Most of the surfers are sitting on the inside. The onshore winds from the cool weather and low-pressure system make for crumbly, textured, and choppy conditions. I see a couple guys catch some short rides. The shape is a little walled with some corners at the end. I’ve waited too long for this day, this morning, this session.

     “I’ll be back,” I tell Briana. “I’m gonna leave KK a message.”

     “You gonna draw a penis on his van?”

     I stop in my tracks and turn around. “You know, I wasn’t even thinking about that. Thanks!”

     As an ode to Fransauce, I lift Klaude’s wipers and draw a dick on his rear window. Bri and I head to Bolsa.

#

     This drive seems long, but at least the traffic’s still light. There are signs of life with surfers in the lot, rinsing off and leaving. We park at tower twenty and go out for a gander. The break in front of the tower isn’t doing much; it’s small. However, it does look better than the South Bay; there’s shape. To our north there is a large crowd of longboarders, even though the surf is small. Bolsa Chica to our south has just as many people. “Let’s go to Huntington,” I say. “It should be a little bit bigger.”

     Walking back to the car, Bri says, “I’m glad you think that I can handle harder conditions than this.”

#

     Two guys are leaving the lot when Bri and I pull up, but some surfers are making their way out towards the river jetties on the sand. It’s already a late morning (surf wise), and we are clearly making the window for the second shift. We walk out to the break, and it’s empty. Three guys sit to the north while the rest of the surfers are at the river mouth. The tide’s high, and the waves are a little walled with fast sections towards the end of them. Fuck it. We’re here. I’m not driving back to Bolsa. It’s time to live with our decision.

#

     Even though the air is warm, I throw on my wetsuit. I have the option of using the Zippy of the JS. Given that the tide is rising and the conditions aren’t so great because of the onshores, I pull out the Zippy. I want “guaranteed” rides.

     I pulled a muscle in my upper back after Monday’s session. It’s what I get for not stretching and taking care of my body, probably from my inactivity of having to prioritize studying so much. So as soon as we reach the sand, I take a little more time to warm up. What’s the rush? No one’s out, the waves aren’t that great, the tide’s already coming up, so . . . it is what it is.

     Bri’s never paddled out at Huntington before. I tell her that today’s a small day, but that the waves here still jack up a little fast. I tell her to go for the shoulders if she has to and to try to catch the waves early.

     The paddle out is mistimed, and a set comes in. In the impact zone, I have to duckdive two good-looking waves. Bri paddles up. “Hey,” I say, “There are actually some decent waves here. I’m pretty stoked. I think it’s gonna be fun!”

     The next set is walled, but the in-between waves are peaky and have shoulders on both ends. The onshore wind calms down a little, putting texture on the surface but not taking away from the shape at all. The peak that I surfed on Monday looks good; I have the perfect vantage point to see the peeling, left-hand shoulder. I go left on my first wave. It jacks up to a solid three-feet once it breaks. The Zippy’s so easy. I’ve never surfed it here, only at Bolsa. I’m immediately propelled down the line, and the shoulder is still building, holding. I bottom turn and pull off a sluggish check off the top. I get a couple more pumps before the wave closes out.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I wonder if I’ve made the right choice or not. The waves are a better than what they looked from shore, and I’m sure that my JS would work in these conditions.

     I’m picky. No need to go for the walls. I let them pass. “Go for the ones with the shoulders,” I tell Bri. I catch another left. To reduce the drag, I try to lay back into my turns. I almost fall, but for the first time, my frontside turn on Zippy is a little snappier because of this. It’s not a legit “lay back” snap, but I did do an aggressive, backwards shift with my weight to pull it off.

     Heading back, I see Bri in the perfect spot for a left. “Go!” I yell. She doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t hear me. When I paddle up to her, I want to say that she missed a good one, or I want to question her and ask what happened. But I don’t. I already learned this lesson. She has to figure this out on her own. When I reach her, a solid three-foot peak is approaching her. “Go, go, go!” I say.

     She turns and starts paddling. It’s about to break, but she pulls back. She sees me looking at her.

     “What happened?” I ask. She doesn’t respond. “Fear?”

     “Yeah.”

     “That’s okay.”

     The next one comes, but I don’t call her on it. She turns and paddles. The wave’s only two-feet, but the shape is nice; it’s a right. As soon as the wave has her, she says, “Yes!” and pops up. I watch her from behind. She’s going right, smiling.

#

     The session turns into a wave buffet. The wind turns back on a bit, but the shape is still manageable. My rights aren’t as good. Since HB’s waves are fast, my balance is tested going backhand on the thick Zippy. I barely stick the landing after hitting the lip, usually purling on the down turn. You’d think with the rising tide that things would slow down, but some solid walls start coming in on sets that seem to last forever. I’m even struggling to make it out of the impact zone. Bri’s having a harder time; she’s paying her dues. Even on a small day, HB is much harder than Old Mans, and she’s learning it firsthand.

     The current starts to pick up as well, and we drift north to the next tower. Bri’s a bit apprehensive on paddling-into the waves. I see her pass some up, angle her board too hard when she’s not deep enough, or position herself too deep where the wave is cresting. She hasn’t surfed in weeks, and I can see the frustration on her face. I want to tell her what to do, but again I keep a lid on it. It’s her experience. She just needs more time.

#

     The buffet doesn’t end for me, but I start to get tired. My timing is off on a couple drop-ins. I feel like I’m in a good place to go deep, but the wave breaks right on me. None-the-less, there are still choice rides. Even some walls have makeable shoulders, fast and lined up. There are still peaks in between the walled sets. My expectations are exceeded.  

#

     We’re walking back to the car when Bri says, “I couldn’t read the waves. I think I’m in position, but then they break. They look small but they get so big at the last second. I was scared.”

     “Yeah, it took me a while to get this spot down too.” I tell her that when I take my friends here for the first time, their timing is off too. I tell her about when I first started surfing here with my bro; I would always go too late and eat shit.

     We debate on what to eat. She wants Bob’s Hawaiian, but I recently went there for Sebastian’s birthday. Seafood Town is mentioned, but It’s a little too early for Chinese. “I want waffles,” I say. “And chicken!”

Roscoe's in LB

WHEN SCHOOL GETS IN THE WAY , MON 15OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, clean, offshore, inconsistent, high tide.

PRE BLOG—Tales of the Skunk:

     I had duty from the 12^th – 14^th, so on Thursday the 11^th, I planned to do a dawn patrol with my classmate Cassady. The forecast said there would be some AM wind, but that there was some fair conditions from the SW swell.

     I woke up at 0525, ate, and loaded up my wagon. Everything outside was wet; I didn’t realize that it rained.

     The morning was dark, and by the time I reached Torrance on the 405S, lightning and rain commenced. It doesn’t matter, I thought. I was going to paddle out no matter what.

     Long Beach wasn’t any dryer, and there was still thunder and sprinkles when Cassady loaded his gear into my car.

     “What do you think about the thunder?” he asked.

     I thought about his question then remembered the time I surfed Porto during a thunderstorm. We saw the lightning a couple miles away. Only about a dozen of us idiots were out. When we heard the roar from the thunder, none of us said a word. Nope. Instead, we slightly turned our heads to see if anyone was going to say anything. No one did, regardless that we all contemplated on paddling in.

    

     We passed Bolsa Chica. “That looks pretty sick,” said Cas.

     I looked over. There was a clean right peeling, just under three feet. I tell him that we’re gonna check out my brother’s favorite spot in North Huntington.

     When we arrive . . . the peaks are crumbly, long and walled but at only a couple feet. It’s choppy. It’s bad. No one’s out. Even at River Jetties there are only a couple heads. It’s unappetizing. 

     Cassady says that his uncle lives in Newport, and we can park at his house. We check it out. It looks worse.

     We find ourselves back at Bolsa, and anything resembling that clean, wave we saw in the morning is nothing but a myth. Some groms are coming back in, along with a couple longboarders. Everyone is leaving. We drive to lifeguard tower 20. The surf syndrome kicks in, causing me to tilt my head, squint, and mind-surf the crumbly sections. 

     “Let’s go to my work and grab some breakfast,” says Cas.

     We walk back to the car bone dry. Wetsuits and boards fill my wagon, unused—a false alarm. 

#

15OCT2012:

     After a fairly successful work weekend, a morning sesh is necessary. Sure, I could just pick up the old routine and workout before class, but I need this surf session; I have to. According to the weather forecast, there’s a system of high pressure, making the temps rise again, also creating some offshore flow. I take a look at the forecast. The tide’s gonna be a little high in the morning, but Huntington still has a green rating. I gotta do it.

     I load up the JS and the Tokoro and head towards Bolsa since it’s close to school. I don’t bother hitting up Cas because there’s a chance I could get skunked again.

     The feeling of the true, dawn patrol is foreign to me now. Traffic is light but swervy from people still half asleep. The sun’s still a faint, purple tinge behind the horizon, and my car’s instrument panel reflects throughout my inner compartment. My coffee’s hot, and the freeway lights are brownish-orange.

     To think I used to do this all the time.

Bolsa:

     I’m at tower twenty. The conditions are magnificent. The wind is light offshore, the sun’s already bright, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, but gawd damn it’s small. It’s like two-feet, consistent, but not peaky. The lines are long. A few longboarders make their way out. They’re stoked, rushing it.

     I have to see what North HB is doing.

N HB:

     I’m at my favorite spot. Ten guys on body boards are out. A woman with a tripod setup is filming them. A couple peaks roll on, but they meet the backwash, jacking up prematurely but still giving a fat, racy shoulder. It’s not classic HB, not the epic surf that I’ve scored here with Fransauce on many occasions. Three surfers bob to the south. River Jetties has a lot of heads, but I’ve never surfed there; I may never in my life; I don’t know. 

     This is it, as good as it’s gonna get. A sun-beaten, freckle-skin, blonde guy is parked close by.    “How’s the water temp been?” I say.

     “The morning’s been warm, but I still put on a wetsuit, you know . . . keep that water off my back. It’s been windy in the evenings so . . . wetsuit for sure.”

     I thank him and take a look at my boardshorts and wetsuit.

#

     I’m in my Hurley shorts (courtesy of Manny A.) and black, long-sleeved rashguard. Because of the high tide, I select the JS. The water’s cool, but manageable. Trunking it is a successful gamble. The sun is now higher, making everything opposite the ocean a radiant gold. The water is glassy, clean, but . . . fucking tide. It’s inconsistent where I am. The body boarders are getting some waves, but their rides are short. To the south, there’s a left-hand peak that keeps peeling. It’s half the distance to the river jetties, a far but doable paddle.

     When I reach it, I’m close enough to the main pack to make out some faces and shapes, but I have a peak to their north to myself. My first wave comes. The peak looks small, but it hits the sandbar and the backwash, jacking up to three-plus feet. It’s a quick drop, but I maintain my balance into the bottom turn. The section’s running away, so I pump, keeping my eye on the lip. It starts to go vertical, so I crouch, but the lip spills instead of going round. I fade out, climb the face, and attempt a top turn. There’s something about this JS, probably a fault of my own as well, but I just can’t crank out any good front-side turns on it, not like on the Tokoro. The tail is sluggish as I try my carve, so I end up doing more of a check turn off of the face for my finishing maneuver.

     I resurface, not completely fulfilled, but . . . it’s better than any wave that I’ve caught in the last . . . shit, I can’t even remember when the last wave I caught was. I’m satisfied. The wave makes the morning. Despite the conditions, there’s potential.

     Back at the lineup, the surfer I passed earlier is now there. Minutes later, guys are on the sand. Next thing you know, there’s a fucking crowd at my peak. . . . What the fuck just happened?

     I get a couple more rides, but none surpass the quality of my first wave. I’m in position for some plus-sized peaks, but I have to back out because of the crowd. The blonde dude from the parking lot is ripping it up. He takes off deep, where the drop is critical, way behind from where I would take off from, but he makes the sections and gets rides all the way to shore.

     I know it’s going to get better when the tide drops. Even the afternoon, I know it’s going to be good, but my watch says it’s 0900. I have to prioritize.

     I paddled out; I got wet; I got a couple waves. It will have to suffice.

#

     For the rest of the week at school, I study in the library while checking the surf cams and reports. It’s good out there; I know it is. I close my Surfline app because it’s no use; it’s torture. I’ll just have to hear how good it was through someone else. . . .

FUCKIN' BOURDAIN, SUN 7OCT2012 MOR

Crew: KK, Leslie, CC, Bec

Time: 0715-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT, clean, offshore, walled

Balance:

     After spending the whole day blogging yesterday, I ate dinner, cleaned up my JS board, and I got ready for bed. In the middle of brushing my teeth, I got a phone call. I looked at my iPhone. It was my cousin from Sacramento calling. The last time he called was three weeks ago, but I was so busy I let the phone ring without picking it up. I hesitated with a mouth full of toothpaste, looking at the name HAYDEN on the screen. I couldn’t blow him off again. I picked up the phone with a fake, excited tone.

     “Heyyyy!” he said, surprised that he was talking to a living being, “I thought I was gonna get your voicemail!”

     We covered the “minors,” which is catching up about family and what we’ve been up to lately. I told him about my girlfriend that he had no idea about, that’s when I realized that it’s been longer than a couple months that we talked. I’m an asshole, I thought. I get so wound up in my own shit sometimes that I let my friendships fall to the wayside. Seven months ago I was desperate to reestablish those connections; I needed friends more than ever.

     I told him how I’ve been struggling for balance and barely have the time to surf, about trying to find time to exercise in between, and how I plan to make more “cuts” this week. Then he gave me a revelation that I didn’t expect to hear from him.

     “You have to surf,” he said. “That’s your connection with nature, something to balance you out. Keep you ‘human.’”

     So that’s that, that’s what he told me. I think I’ve been doing too much. So now it follows. I think I’ll just say fuck hitting the gym this spring semester and focus more on squeezing in sessions wherever I can.

NEED GOOD WAVES:

     It’s day three of my “staying local” plan. I fail to get up as early as yesterday but still wake up with the same raging piss boner as always. I push my erection into the toilet bowl while I sit and yawn. The hot stream of urine works its way through the solid roll of wiener, running parallel with the primary vein at the top of my shaft.

     I grab the JS that I stripped last night and put fresh coats of base and cool water wax on. It looks so clean. I can’t remember the last time the JS looked this good.

     Instead of hopping on the 405 North, I experiment with taking Marine all the way to the coast. It’s a shorter distance, but there are a lot of stop signs and speed restrictions which make the drive longer.

     Of course, there is no free parking. I spot Klaude’s van, but he’s long gone from the lot already. I park across from him. The local vet Bruce is already posted, talking to the old timers in the upper lot.

     My boardshorts and rashguard are in my bag, but the air feels a little cool. I chicken out and throw on the wetsuit. I won’t be the Boardshort Mamba today.

     I spot KK and Leslie on the sand, warming up before I cross the run path. By the time I get to the sand, they are already in the water. He’s pushing her into the whitewash. She gets up with a wide, water bug stance. Her hands are reaching forward to balance the unstable, nine-foot behemoth. She falls. KK shoots her into the next wave. She purls. Awwww yes, the glories of barneyism! Enjoy.

     I make my walk into the shallows, waving down Klaude. He smiles when he sees me an approaches in short steps.

     I wave him back off and point to the lineup. He needs to focus his attention on his padawan.

#

     I can’t tell if the surf is better than yesterday. Today supposed to be smaller, but there are still waves. The tide’s approaching mid level, and the conditions are clean, but the waves are breaking section-into-section. Some waves look peaky but end up being walls. Or if they have shoulders, they dump really fast because of the tide.

     Still, I’m hoping to get lucky like yesterday, getting a fun ride here and there. First I catch some closeouts and go straight, and then I experiment with getting slotted in the closeouts. None of the rides standout.

     The current is taking us north of 26^th, so I paddle back every couple minutes. It’s more crowded by the tower, and where I am, north of, there aren’t as many people.

No Reservations:

     Finally, I’m in position for the left shoulder of a wall. It looks tapered and small, but I know that (on a day like this) I’m in the best place for distance; it’s gonna line up and give me an open face.

     There’s this other guy who looks exactly like Anthony Bourdain surfing in the same area. Sometimes I wonder if it’s actually him. I’m working my way over to the shoulder because I’m a little deep, but he starts working his way over from the opposite side.

     How can he not see me? He has to see me because he has to paddle directly towards me and turn around in order to get this wave. I paddle and pop up just behind the shoulder. The ride is starting off with good shape, just a good tapered shoulder that begins to go vertical, but lines up well for at least one explosive turn. And what does Bourdain look-alike do? He drops in right in front of me. I can’t pump and gain speed because he’s right there. I wipeout from being caught in the section. When I resurface, I’m wearing a frustrated look, it’s the “Gee, man . . . I really just came here to surf and not deal with any assholes” look. I turn to Bourdain.

     He has the “I’m sorry I just farted on your ham sandwich look,” the look that says, “I know I could have farted anywhere else, but I had to go, and your ham sandwich just so happened to be there. . . . Sorry.” He looks at me with a pity-me countenance. He puts his hand up in a friendly gesture.

     I wave back, but I paddle to get away from him. I guess I had No Reservations.

#

     KK unscrews the training wheels, swims next to Leslie while she paddles out, and then he goes back in to get his Don K. Rocket.

     Leslie drifts so far outside that she can barely hear Klaude when he yells for her. Instead of turning around to paddle towards the beach, she throws the board in R and paddles backwards while still facing the horizon.

     Despite the one-to-two foot forecast, there are some waves coming through. KK and I paddle for a lot of them, either going straight or pulling out. I’m still looking for the same gem that Bourdain ruined earlier.

     I recognize Bec in the lineup. She’s sitting to my south. I paddle up to her. She says that Christina is on the sand still warming up.

     “How was your trip?” I ask.

     “Oh, it was beautiful!

     “How far north did you go?”

     “Portland.”

     “PORTLAND?!” I see KK paddling up to us. I try to introduce them but Klaude takes a wave. “Did you get to surf on your trip?”

     “Yes, I went to that one spot, ummmm,” she looks down at her board then looks back at me, “Steamers Lane!”

     “Oh shit, you surfed Steamers? Wow, I heard it’s pretty localized. I’ve seen it but never surfed it.”

     “Yes, the locals had it down so well. They ride the waves so close to the rocks. It was un-bee-leevable! I only caught one.”

     Klaude paddles up. I introduce them.

     Bec’s got quite the itinerary coming up. She’s going to El Salvador on Tuesday, then Nicaragua, and then back to San Francisco to catch a flight to Hawaii. Somewhere in November, she plans to be back in Australia.

     “I’ll be back in a shitty time,” she says. “I might have to find work in the mines.”

     I pause. “Wait . . . the mines? Like with a hardhat, helmet light, and a pick?”

     “No,” she says, “more like sifting through small rocks. It’s pretty boring actually.”

     I explain that I’ve never met anyone who worked in the mines, and my mental image is the stereotypical stuff you see on TV. I guess it’s like me telling people I used to pick pineapples, and most people think pineapples grow on trees.

     “Damn, is Christina still stretching?” says Klaude.

#

     The four of us are in the water, going for whatever’s there. Bec says she feels rusty. She pops up too early on some waves, unable to get into them. I’m being picky, looking for something with a shoulder. I really want a turn.

     After a closeout, I’m on the inside working my way back. I see a classic Dump Rider set roll in. CC goes for broke, paddles in and goes straight. Beck pops up a little late, ditches her board, and rolls into the falls.

     I can’t get an open face for the life of me. What a shame with such good conditions. I just want some shape. I need to go down the line; even single shot turns would be awesome. To my north, I see a regular footer going right. He gets an arcing turn; he’s so fast and fluid it’s like he’s slicing into it. I guess there are good waves here, but I’m just not getting them.

#

     I contemplate on feeding the meter and staying longer, but I have some obligations. My homeboy Sebastian’s birthday was yesterday, and I promised to take him out to breakfast. I say my goodbyes to Bec. I wish I could stay longer, but a little bit of face time is better than none at all. We’ll keep in touch.

     Klaude, Leslie, and I change back at the lot.

     I didn’t get my San Onofre fill on Friday, so it feels like forever since I caught a down-the-line ride, but I don’t regret staying local. I’m stoked I got to see Bec, and yesterday was a good turnout for the DRC. Friday I got so surf with Whiff, which barely happens because I’m not at Porto as much. I have work next weekend, so I’ll miss out on surf for at least a week. I hope I can follow Hayden’s advice and sneak in one more session before I have to report on Friday.