BIRTHDAY STAYCATION (double sesh), FRI 30NOV2012 EVE

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 3 FT, low tide, foggy, overcast.

     I wake at 1500. I close my eyes. It’s now 1600. Fuck me. We overslept and barely have a half hour before the sun goes down. I prop myself up on my elbows and take a look outside. The marine layer is even thicker than this morning, and even though the sun is up somewhere behind the overcast, its effects are minimal.

     I tell Bri to get up. “We don’t have much time,” I say. The original plan was to go back to Middles, but without much light left, we have to surf at Churches.

     The tide is ridiculously low, making the main peak at the center of the break consistent, but everywhere else is inconsistent. Even though it’s late, there are enough people out to make it a crowd.

     We paddle out and don’t get much because nothing is swinging wide. It’s not until we paddle past the top of the wave and have a chance to catch the set waves early, that we’re able to get some waves.

     Bri is still worn out from this morning, and she’s frustrated with the crowd; so am I. Within the next twenty minutes people start to leave. Now we’re able to catch some waves. I don’t get any rides of supreme significance, but I still manage a couple turns. Some of the waves are too mooshy and weak, so I stall on the back-hand snap and get left behind.

     Now it’s dark, so dark that we can barely see each other out here. The sky’s now a dark, purplish grey, and the few lights in the mountains and at the nuclear plant give the dark canvas some life. Bri says she’s scared, but I’m not worried, so long as there are a couple other guys out as well. Once it’s down to just three of us, we leave.

     It’s still drizzling when we change, so we bring our towels and change at the bathrooms where there’s light. We’re getting wet while we’re packing and strapping up the NSP to the roof. It’s barely past 1800, but it’s one hundred percent night outside. We ponder at how we would just be paddling out for our evening sessions at this time during the summer. It drizzles on the way home with a few pockets of heavier rain, but inside the car it’s muggy and humid, the way it should be from two people that spent the day surfing.

BIRTHDAY STAYCATION, FRI 30NOV2012 MOR

Loc: Churches to Middles

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 3 FT, light onshore, drizzling, overcast.

     There was a big swell coming in, somewhere around six feet. Briana wouldn’t have been able to handle Porto, but her birthday was the day prior, and we didn’t get a chance to surf, but where? Initially I was thinking Palos Verdes, until I got the morning recon report from Rick. “It’s gonna be too big for her,” he said, “even for PV.”

     I had woken up early, but I kept a close eye on the cams until the first reports came in. It was wet and overcast outside—miserable. I wanted to take Bri out for a good time but not at the cost of getting worked all morning.

Southward Bound:

     I hate using surf straps, especially when it’s drizzling outside and they’re wet, but we got everything packed and loaded and headed out. The whole drive down south was wet. Rick called again, and asked where we were going. When I said Churches he said we made a good call. As we exited Basilone Road and looked at Lowers, there weren’t many people there, which is always a bad sign. We did see some waves breaking towards Middles, but it was hard to tell if it was good or not. When we drove under the Trestle, entering Churches, we weren’t sure what to expect. Fears of the skunk were hard to suppress, especially when the surf was pumping in the South Bay. The first thing I noted was the high tide, and the empty lineup, but when we rounded the corner further, we saw about a dozen guys out, scoring long, three-foot rides. The trip would not be a waste.

    

     I couldn’t contain myself, nor could I change into my wetsuit fast enough. The surf wasn’t pumping hard, but it looked consistent and fun. Since I gave back the Zippy to Rick, I felt that the surf was good enough for the Tokoro, since my JS was broken down too. The rain was no longer a factor.

     There were two peaks working, and since the longboarders had a monopoly on them, Bri and I sat in the saddle between, hoping for some waves to swing wide.   

     It’s one of the worst feelings: seeing good waves break around you and not being able to ride them. Bri still doesn’t have the experience to compete in a pack, and I was severely under gunned to battle at the top of the wave. Eventually, patience prevailed, and we got some waves every time the sets rolled through. Some of the sets were walled, coming in just under five feet but still manageable because of the break’s gradual slope. The best I could get was two-turns on a wave, but I struggled getting down the line. The Tokoro was not beefy enough for the shape, even with the size.

     Since I’m writing this blog weeks later (because of school), I can’t recall everything, but we hung out here for almost two hours before paddling north towards Middles. It was a long paddle for Bri, but I always make her paddle her ass off. She hates me for it, but I know it will pay off in the long run.

     I had a hard time paddling past my famed spot: The Battle Position. Reason being because waves started coming in. I couldn’t believe it. Middles . . . I haven’t seen it work here in . . . about a year? For some reason, this WNW swell had some solid, three-foot plus, classic, down the line waves. Only four guys were on it when we arrived. Even though I could’ve used a bigger board, I still managed some fun rides, but nothing over two turns.

     Bri was catching waves, but she was a little outside of her comfort zone . . . and exhausted. A random wave just under four feet popped up. She watched it form in front of her but hesitated to paddle for it. I yelled, “GoGoGo!” as I paddled back to the lineup. She turned her board, paddled towards the shoulder, but couldn’t paddle hard enough to get the drop. I knew what she was going through: fear, hesitation, a lack of confidence, intimidation. She needs more time in the water, but for a beginner I’ve taken her out in some challenging condition, and she’s done really well.

     As good as Middles was, we were approaching our third hour. Bri was done. I still had some fuel left; I could’ve stayed, but I didn’t want to be a dick, so we left.

     From there I took Bri to Pipe’s Café in San Clemente for the first time. It was still drizzling and wet out, so the café was empty. After we ate, we went back, parked, spread out the blankets, and took a nap in the wagon. With the sound of drops pattering on the roof of my car, the view of gray skies out of every window I looked out of, and under the warmth of our blankets, we fell asleep, as cozy and comfortable as we could possibly be.

SURF OVER INJURY, SAT 23NOV2012 MOR

Time: 0900-1015

Crew: Apolla, CC, KK

Conditions: 1-3 FT, light onshore, sunny then foggy, small.

     I spend all day Friday doing homework. Where do the weekends go? I swear I plan on doing much more, but in the balance of obligations, my studies seem to suffer; it’s the story of my semester. Aside from my readings, I stretch and use this self help massage tool (which is shaped like a cane with knobs on it) to prod my back. By nightfall, I feel better.

     Plans fall through for surfing HB on Saturday. With the swell dying out, there’s no need to drive all the way down south, says Randy. After texting Klaude all night about plans to surf HB, I give him the final call around 1000, telling him that we’re gonna be staying local instead. “What time are you gonna go?” I ask.

     “I’m gonna dawn patrol it,” he says.

     “Okay. See you in the morning.”

#

     My roommate has family visiting, so I wake up with a piss boner at 0300. I see that one of our guests didn’t flush the toilet. “Nasty motherfuckers,” I say to myself.

     After I take my piss, I’m glad that I have almost three more hours of sleep.

#

     I shift the rest of the night because of my sore back. I open my eyes. It’s 0830. What thee fuck!? I look at my alarm clock. I forgot to set it. A hundred thoughts run through my mind: I’m an idiot, why the fuck did I wake up late, the morning’s wasted, the DRC is out there and I’m not, my balls are itchy. Worst of all is my word to Klaude. I pride myself in my word. To me, it’s good; if I say I’m gonna do something I usually do it. “See you in the morning.” Those words echo through my mind, the last thing I told KK last night. I reach for my phone and shoot him a text regarding my insolence.

#

     It’s 0900 when I reach the sand. I spot KK and CC, but I don’t rush the water. My back and neck feel tight, much tighter than I went to bed. In the rush and stress of the morning, my body’s going through a relapse. The surf looks consistent, but it’s small. After a solid ten minutes in the child’s-pose, I grab the Tokoro and paddle out.

     Christina paddles but backs out on a wave. She sees me. “Heyyyy, Matt!” she says.

     I acknowledge her, but first I owe my debt to KK. “What’s up, Matt?” he says. He dismounts his board and gives me some man-love. Usually I’d get off my board in this aquatic embrace, but my back’s still tweaked.

     “I thought you went with your brother,” he says.

     I explain my debacle.

     “Well,” he says, “I’m gonna have to leave soon.”

     He says the surf has been fun the last hour. He inquires about the Zippy.

     I paddle to CC and play a little catch-up, relating the tale about my pinched nerve and pinched ego.

     “What did you do for Thanksgiving?” I ask.

     She points to her left. “I just hung out with Apolla.”

     Apolla smiles and waves. She’s been in N.Y. for months; I didn’t even recognize her. We engage in some small talk.

     I call the next wave. CC and KK go for it, but Bruce (local vet and former South Bay male model) catches it first on his longboard, and cruises for a long ride to the inside. It’s a typical 26^th St. scene with people in the water hooting him on his ride. When he comes back, Klaude says, “Bruce, that was sick.”

     Bruce pauses before returning with, “That was scary.”

     We laugh.

     My first wave is a right. My timing is off since I can’t turn my head all the way. I’m back on Barney mode, facing the shore and paddling without eyeing my position. The wave breaks on me. I’m deep and late. I fall on top of my board when I wipe out. The rail bangs the back of my calf on the lower part near my ankle. There’s not much meat there; it fucking hurts. I resurface with double the injury, ignoring the aching from my calf as I make my way back out. Motherfucker.

     KK leaves. CC and I go for a couple waves together. I catch a right. The peak is long and fast, but there’s an opportunity to hit the lip at least once. However, setting up my bottom turn is hard with the damaged calf; I miss my opportunity.

     The slim showing of the DRC leaves (but of course, everyone was here on Thanksgiving Day, the day I got fucked), and now I’m all by my lonesome. The wind from the north picks up, bringing in a marine layer that covers up the sun. The smooth, glassy surface is now riddled with chop. It’s inconsistent. All my rides are short; I can’t get a turn in. It’s a feeling of melancholy in the water. I think about how I fucked myself up a couple days ago, how I was a hermit yesterday, and how I missed the better window of surf. I think the Zippy would’ve helped. . . . As much as I’d like to stay, I’m preoccupied with other things: homework, unfinished blogs, homework, homework, homework. I’m a preoccupied soul in the lineup.

     My next wave is a closeout. It’s not intended to be my last wave, but I decide to ride the whitewash in and call it a morning. It’s a quiet walk back to Marine Ave. where I scored free parking. I walk by other surfers with my head down, looking at the ground. It hurts to raise it.