BREATH OF AIR, SAT 01DEC2012 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Randy & Klaude

Conditions: 6FT, walled, consistent, overcast, gnarly.

     Klaude wasn’t going to join my bro and I for a surf in the morning. I was disappointed, and KK sensed it in my voice. I didn’t want to pressure KK, and I accepted that it would just be me and my bro. He later rescinded and said he’d meet us. The swell got bigger over night, and Saturday morning was supposed to be heavy.

#

     It’s another grey and ominous morning. Randy and I head out. I didn’t know what to expect local, but one thing I do know is that if the swell is too big, the sandbars won’t hold the shape. Before we park, we see guys perched and watching the surf from the parking lot. Randy and I step out from the lifeguard station for a closer look. There’s only one guy out. A big wave comes, at least six feet. It’s gonna close, but he holds his line and gets barreled before he’s enveloped by the lip of the wave. From there, he struggles to get back out and punch through the rest of the set. The inside is roaring whitewash, and the sets are consistent and big. I’m looking for some shape. I see some makeable waves, but they are fast. “What do you think?” I ask Randy.

     “Yeah, looks okay. There’s a couple shoulders here.”

     “Do you wanna check Porto?”

     “I don’t know. Should we? This is your break. You should know better.”

     I look at my phone to see if Klaude called yet. “Let’s wait,” I say.

     I guess I wouldn’t mind so much, but there is only one guy out, and he’s riding a gun. I have my 6’1 standard shortboard Tokoro, while Randy feels perfectly comfortable with the 5’8 Lost board. 

     When Klaude shows up, we change and head to the sand. I’m taking my time warming up, making sure that I won’t reinjure myself. I’m scouting the water for a lull and a channel. The storm drain seems like the best bet. Klaude and Randy hit the water first. As much as I want to warm up longer, I decide to paddle out with them at the same time. I don’t want to get caught in a set while they’re on the outside without me.

     It’s the moment of truth. My paddle’s pretty strong; I’m confident about that. I pass Klaude and I pass my brother, and then . . . the barrage.

FUCK ME:

     I’m either paddling over or duckdiving the whitewash, but I’m getting slowed down. If I could just make it over the outside peak. I reach the point where the waves are breaking and forming the whitewash; I’m so close. The closer I get to the impact zone, the harder it is to pull clean duckdives. I resurface. Randy passes me up. I keep paddling. My breath is becoming more rapid, heart pounding, duckdive, cold, gasp for air. I think about the guys in the lot. What we’re doing can’t look appealing, especially what I’m going through. What happened to my strong paddle?

     The set never stops. I still see Randy. He’s further out now, but still not in the clear. I gain a little ground and get closer, but the waves start getting bigger and break further out. The white wash is too much. This is a nonstop affair. I’m unaware at how long I’ve been at this, but I’m tired. I look at my surroundings and realize that I’m way back towards the inside again. I turn around and catch the whitewash to shore. I think about the blog title: Couldn’t Make it Out. It’s a defeating moment in my life. How embarrassing, especially on a rare day that I paddle out with my brother; I can’t even fuckin’ make it out. I walk back south a little to where I had paddled out. Just a little break, I’m thinking. Then I see Don K. paddle out on a long, gunny board. Klaude is still on the inside too, paddling his ass off, in the same predicament that I was in. On the outside my brother catches a wave, going right. He stalls and tries to hunker down, but the lip isn’t throwing out into a barrel. He dives into the base of the wave before it closes out. I catch my breath and paddle out next to Klaude. I know he doesn’t realize I’m there. “Hey!” I say. I communicate with my facial expression, one that reads: “me too.” I have no idea if this second paddle out will materialize, and as I approach the first inside waves, I get held back again. Don K. paddles past me. I slide back on my board and try to make it back out. Miraculously . . . the set finally stops.

     I can finally see the channel, but the whole time I’m scared shitless, wondering if some rogue wave is just gonna gobble me up. The safest place is the outside, and I’m still working my way through the impact zone. Once I see Don paddle more parallel to the beach, I know I’ve made it. My eyes are so blurry from all the whitewash. I see Randy. I want to throw both of my arms up in celebration, but there’s still work to be done.

     When I turn around, I see Klaude taking advantage of the lull too, making his way closer. It was the hardest paddle out in my entire life.

#

     You bet your ass I’m being picky. I’m not just going for anything and everything, especially after that gnarly paddle out. Randy’s picky, but he goes on a couple. The sets calmed down, so he’s able to make it back with ease. Don K. gets the longest ride of the morning. On his gun, I watch him take off. Even though the wave looks like its closing out, he kicks out way towards the inside.

     “Don said it was a forty-five minute set,” says Klaude.

     I know we were paddling for a while, but forty-five minutes still feels too long. I’m thinking maybe thirty-five at most.

     Randy’s and Don’s waves inspire Klaude and I to go. Randy gets one. So do I. I go on a left. The drop feels critical, not from the shape but from the size, speed, and power. I pop up and start pumping down the line, but the wave is breaking section-on-section, so I kick out. Back at the lineup, Klaude goes on the next one. It’s a crazy morning. I see him paddle and disappear as the wave picks him up. It looks like pure oblivion from the back of the wave, just a massive explosion. He paddles back unharmed.

     As the tide rises, the consistency slows down, but the majority of the waves are still walled. Don K. leaves, and the three of us who are left are even pickier, scratching and pulling out. Meanwhile, the lot is still full with just spectators, but now a few surfers start making their way to the sand and paddle out in front of the lifeguard tower.

     The whole time, Klaude and I are just giving each other that look. We and Don K. (and that one other guy who was there first) were the only ones who paddled out. I can’t speak for Klaude, but I for sure felt out of my comfort zone.

WIPEOUT OF THE WINTER:

     I get one decent right. The take off is so steep that I have a hard time muscling through my bottom turn. I’m not used to going this fast, so I kickout. Sure, maybe I could have gotten a turn, maybe two, but I damn sure don’t want to get caught on that inside again. After this, and the wave I mentioned earlier, I eat shit on my next rides.

     Klaude sees this as he’s paddling out. So does my brother. I’m paddling, going for a bomb. Just as I’m popping up, I get hung up on the lip. My bro later tells me it was from the backwash, but I really don’t know what happened. All I know is that my board is in the air to my right, and I’m covering up my head like I’m getting pummeled by some UFC guy, but my descent down is a weightless airdrop. I am oblivion. I must’ve held my breath too soon. I feel the pressure in my sinuses, in fact I can hear them compressing with a faint squeal. Even though we’re far out in the lineup, I still get dragged deep down and touch the bottom. The weight of the water feels heavier, and I’m running out of air. I get that uncomfortable notion that I am pretty far down. Staying calm is hard. I’m out of air, and all I can think of is: what if there’s another wave coming? I’m fucked. I resurface, gasping in terrified shock, like an old man walking alone in the night who’s scared by someone or something that leaps out of the darkness unexpected. It’s not so easy to grab my board and paddle back. I’m weak, the depravation of air affects me. I paddle towards Klaude.

     “You were down there for a while. I saw your board tomb stoning,” he says.

     I try to calm down and come up with the right words, but I don’t want to sound like I just had a near death experience. After all, it comes with the territory of being a surfer. We all have these moments. For those like me, very seldom. I’m shaken, visibly as well. All I can do is turn to Klaude and say, “I’ll never take air for granted again.”

     My next wipe out is on one of my last waves. Randy is the only one who sees this one. I take off on a steep drop. I’m trying to put some weight on the tail to bring the nose up. After all that downward momentum, my nose purls at the base of the wave. It’s like slow motion, seeing the tip of my board look like a slice of pie wedging into the water. The liquid around the fiber glass so clear. You think, just come back up, nose, just come back up . . . but it doesn’t. I do an indo over my board and land into the water with the wave crashing over me. To add more insult to injury, it’s not just the wipeouts and the paddle outs that are demoralizing, but getting caught by the set on the way back out. All I see is Klaude and Randy darting towards the outside. I’m in such a bad spot that I don’t know if I should wait for the wave to explode first or to just say fuck it and try to duckdive it. Earlier, I had ditched my board because . . . I knew it was pointless. But on this wave, I try. My hands are like clamps, holding onto my board despite the chaos around me. As buoyant as this piece of watercraft is supposed to be, I’m being flipped upside down and all around with this awkward object in hand. I wonder, is this worth holding onto?

     I can’t remember if Klaude or I make it to shore first, but after catching a close out, I pass on the next set coming in and catch the white wash to shore. My muscles are sore, even my biceps are burning. Klaude and I watch Randy catch his last wave. He goes down the line a little, check turns, and rides the rest of it to shore. In the parking lot, Klaude talks to the old vets. They say they timed Don K.’s paddle out at twenty-nine minutes. He paddled out way after we did.

#

     I spend the rest of the day with Bri and Randy, but I’m quieter than usual. Even now as I write this, I think about that hold down. If another wave came after that one, really . . . seriously . . . I would have been FUCKED. I’m lucky to be here.

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.