NEW BEGINNINGS, FRI 21DEC2012 NOON

A quick check before parking on Rosecrans

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1130-1345

Crew: Shan

Conditions: 4 FT, sunny, light offshores, consistent, walled, and crowded.

     A morning session’s out of the question because I must finally do some of my Christmas shopping before my family’s dinner. I shoot out texts to my siblings, asking what my nieces and nephew need. I also have to coordinate where I’m going to look for these items. Shan, Dais, and Khang tell me that they’re paddling out. I tell them I’ll see them soon because I figure I’ll be done in an hour.

#

     I don’t make it to Rosecrans until three hours later. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t the women’s clothing that I had to search for; it’s so difficult! I don’t understand women’s sizes. Why not just have it set at XS, S, M, and L?

     Shan’s on his way, and Khang and Dais are already by the sandwich shack at Porto. As I make my way down, I feel the power of the noon-time sun, striking me from directly above. It’s a perspective that I rarely get. I usually surf really early or really late, but not at this time.

     I find Khang’s van in the Porto lot, but I can’t see the guys in the water. In memory of Fransauce, I lift Khang’s wipers to leave him a message. I paddle out between the north end of the Rosecrans break and the south end of the sandwich shack, in the saddle where it’s not breaking that much. I sit next to other stragglers that are avoiding the crowd as well.

     Mostly walls come my way, and I pass. In frustration, I paddle closer to the right that’s breaking near the sandwich shack. And luckily, I catch two rights here but get no more than two turns on each ride.

     I spend a little over two hours in the water with only a few good rides to show for. The wind starts to change. I never run into Dais, Khang, or Shan, so I head back up on Rosecrans.

     As I’m changing, I hear someone yell, “Is that Donny Duckbutter!” I look and see Shan walking up the hill, dripping wet in his wetsuit with board in hand. He tells me he was at the Rosecrans peak and that he got some good rides. I ask if he’s hungry.

Steve’s Burgers:

     I’ve always seen this burger joint in El Segundo but have never eaten here. We order the burger combo which is $4.95. I whip out my wallet when Shan says, “No, man, I got it. Get me next time.” I’m more than thankful . . . grateful.

     Bri calls while we’re eating. She says she left her work shoes at my place. I tell her to stop by the burger joint to grab my keys.

     When she pulls up, Shan and I watch her park. Shan smiles and looks at me. “We’re gonna be dogs forever,” he says.

     I smile and nod my head. I hear the car door slam and her footsteps approaching us. Shan’s eyes widen and rise as she sets her hand on my shoulder and says, “Hey, baby.”

     I stand up, give her a hug and kiss. Shan doesn’t smile. Instead his mouth is slightly open, lagging behind the welcoming lift of his eyebrows. “Shan, this is Briana. Briana, Shan.”

     After she grabs her keys and goes back in her car, Shan turns to me and says, “Good for you, man!”

Official:

     I’m sitting in my realtor’s office, nervous like it’s an interview. He hands me some documents to sign. I do. He hands me the keys to the place. I thank him. The first thing I do is call Time Warner because I need Internet, at least Internet. From there I head to my new place. It’s empty. I’ve done it . . . I’m here, I’m back. I’m an El Segundo resident again. Even though the place is empty, I spend a half hour wondering where I should put my TV, my computer, and the couch. . . . Will they even fit? I don’t know. All I know is this . . . It’s gonna be a BITCH moving all my shit in. I set a goal to be completely moved in by Friday.

WINDY WALLS, THU 20DEC2012 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1130

Crew: Shan & Khang

Conditions: 3-4 FT, sunny, strong offshores, consistent, walled.

Pre Blog:

     It’s been over twelve days since I updated this blog. Even though school has been over for over two weeks now, I was faced with the challenge of not only moving, but having family to help out, as well as everything that comes with the holidays. Only two days ago did things finally slow down. Now . . . I can write, but please excuse my hazy memory of my past surf sessions.

The Morning Check:

     Shan shoots me a text while I’m still in bed. “Heading out,” he says. Fuck . . . it’s so cold. My friend’s house has terrible insulation, so my room’s still a refrigerator even with my space heater that’s set on high. When I open the door to the living room, it’s like opening a freezer. I brush my teeth and fill up two jugs with scalding hot water. I throw on my dirty ass clothes because when you’re a surfer, you don’t need to wear anything fresh nor take a fucking shower every night. Every other day works for me at this point, even the underwear goes inside out, at least wearing it for two, maybe three days, depending if I had a borderline shart incident. My shirt only half reeks, as the armpit-smell test is in the yellow zone between green and red. I hop on the 405 north to get to Manhattan Beach. I miss the days of living in El Segundo, where the surf was just a short distance. Even though my current distance is reasonable, there’s nothing like living just a couple miles from the surf and not that fake surf where one lives by the water, but that spot is unsurfable. Nope.

Meet the Wind:

     The cold, offshore, winter air blasts my gray hoodie, pressing it against my body. My hood is forced forward onto my brow as I turn my back to the wind. My hands shoot into my pocket while my lungs inhale a winter fresh breath of air. I step over the run path, past the walkers and joggers. 

It’s sunny with nothing but a blue screen for a sky. The lack of cloud cover makes it seem like a roof is missing, letting all the cold air in. Over the ocean, a half mile wall breaks over the inside. It’s white and brown, marble like. Some banners flying on the beach say that two high schools are out there. I’m not sure if this is a competition or practice, but they are going for the walls, most of them pulling in, holding their lines even though the barrels are closing out. As Captain Willard said in Apocalypse Now, “What balls.” I watch, and I watch, and I watch. It’s low tide. Could use more water, I’m thinking. I turn around and head to the lower lot, finding Shan and Veronica in his 4Runner, making the final adjustments on their booties and gloves. There’s a fun board in the back. Not good conditions for any beginner. We exchange greetings. He says that he and Veronica are going to paddle out. I don’t want to shit on their stoke, so I keep my opinion to myself, but what about me? Am I really gonna paddle out now? I tell them that I’ll join them, but first I’m gonna move my car.

Decisions:

     I’m at the top of the hill looking down. The flags over the lifeguard station are flapping helplessly in the wind. If only the wind would die a little bit. I get a text from Khang: “I’ll be there around nine,” he says. I text him back, letting him know the conditions.

     While I’m waiting, I scroll through the Westside Rentals app on my phone, seeing if anything new popped up in any of the beach cities. It’s something that I’ve been doing this whole month, obsessively searching through listings, contemplating on the possibilities of where I can live and for how much. I look on this studio that I’ve had my eyes on. It’s expensive and at the ceiling of my budget. It’s only a studio, with its only consolation being that the utilities are free, parking is good, and it has a shared garage. And to save the best for last . . . It’s in El Segundo, literally a couple blocks from where I was living only nine months ago. But space . . . space is an issue. I call the realtor, and he tells me the unit is unlocked. I shoot Khang a text, letting him know that I’m gonna check out an apartment and come back.

    

A Possible Future:

     When I walk through the door, I first notice that the paint smells fresh. There are rental apps on the kitchen counter. The kitchen’s small, but doable for a bachelor. The counter top kicks ass, takes place of a dining room table to make up for space. The bathroom is decent, no tub, just stand-up shower. But the living room . . . it’s small, but shit . . . I don’t have much. Especially with storage space in the garage? All my bullshit can go in there.

Surf:

     When I paddle out, I don’t see Shan, but I see Khang in the water. He catches a right before I duckdive his same wave. He paddles up to me and says, “There’s some fun ones out here.”

     The wind has died a little, so has the size, but the shape is still an issue. Most of the waves are walled. Out of frustration, Khang starts going for them, catching little bombs that offer no line to take. I, myself, catch a right, good enough for one top turn.

     About an hour later, Khang gets a decent left all the way to shore. He comes back to the lineup and says, “It’s gonna get good now . . . watch! The wind just died, the tide’s coming up . . . it’s gonna get good.”

     And it should, despite the fact that I’m usually a curse to Khang whenever we’re together. Somehow, we barely score waves together. Every time I’ve taken him on a day trip somewhere, the waves have been only so-so or completely terrible, and as the past has proven before, the shape does not improve.

Decision Made:

     Back at home, I ponder at my options. I could live in Long Beach where it’s cheaper and closer to school, but how much would I spend on gas driving to the South Bay? Sure, I’d be closer to HB and the other spots further south, but the South Bay is where my heart is, it’s even at crowded ass Porto where I don’t surf as often. My family is here, my surf family is here, and so are some of my military perks that I take advantage of at the air force base. I could live in Hawthorne or Gardena, but that’s not where I want to be. It’s one thing to live where it’s affordable and another to worry about having your car broken into. After browsing around online, I come to the conclusion that I’m moving to a beach city, close to the surf, or nothing. I call the realtor and set a meeting to bring in my rental application. The prospect of living in El Segundo fills me with anticipation and joy. I love that town. What if I could live in my old neighborhood again, close to the surf, in such a good community? I wouldn’t have to worry about getting jacked for my shit just for taking a walk in the street. Peace of mind, a humble abode in my favorite SoCal town. I’d be back to nights of Stuft Crust Pizza, or maybe a Cuban from Havana Sandwich Company, or a Holly Street bagel sandwich for only three bucks and some change from The Blue Butterfly.

     I tell myself not to get my hopes up so much . . . but what if?

A PLEASANT SURPRISE, WED 19DEC2012 EVE

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1530-1700

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-4 FT, clean, glassy, consistent, soft.

     When Briana comes over after her internship in Santa Monica, I vent to her about my stress over finding a new place. Even though I’ve been out of school for a week, I feel I haven’t had a chance to genuinely enjoy my break. I wish I could live back in El Segundo, but the rent is too much. The renters’ market is more expensive that it was when I got back from Iraq in August of 2010. My other option is to find a one bedroom in Long Beach next to school, but that move would change my life, not detrimentally, but I’d be around the South Bay and my friends significantly less.

     Bri tries to comfort me. “We don’t have to surf,” she says. “If you want we can just look at apartments.”

     I know that apartment hunting is the responsible thing to do, but here I am, surfing while I have zero piece of mind. I need to be out of my current living space immediately.

     “That’s okay,” I say. I open my Surfline App and see that Porto might be too big for Bri. “We’ll go to PV.”

#

     I’m in a crappy mood, which started from a lame surf session followed by a trip all the way back to school in Long Beach to return a book rental. I was supposed to go yesterday, but I got stuck on uncle duty, which made it impossible to get there before it closed.

     I’m thinking about how PV is probably gonna be tiny and how my JS is not enough board to catch anything. I think about Rick’s Zippy. I need it. I tell Bri how I want to buy a Dumpster Diver so I can surf small waves with her.

     We see surf activity as we pass Haggerty’s. I catch a glimpse of some lines coming in through the horizon. “Oh my God,” I say. Surf stoke has me antsy. However, as we pull up to The Cove, there are only a few cars there. A grom chick is heading down the path with her shortboard. Another guy pulls up into a parking spot to check out the surf. Bri and I step out to take a look. The surf is consistent, but it’s small, and there are only a few heads out. Bad sign. I wonder if the tide is too high or if there’s not enough west in this swell. I wish I had a meatier board.

#

     From the water’s edge, I can see some waves coming in, but they look small. I tell Bri that I’m just gonna paddle out while she warms up. As I wade through the rocks I say, “Be careful, It’s shallow here!” I paddle once I’m in chest deep water, then I feel something grind against the bottom of my board. I slide off and take a look. Some brown moss is engraved in the fiber glass, but my board’s still intact. Maybe I should follow my own advice.

     The paddle out is longer than I remember. The inside is a little consistent, but I’m worried about hitting a rock if I duckdive, so I take a lot of whitewash on the head. A three-foot wave approaches on the inside. I turn and go, but it closes out. What a waste of energy. I now have to make up for that distance. By the time I make it to the break, there’s a little lull. It’s been a while since I surfed here. The grom chick is way off to my right, and four longboarders are way off to my left. There is more than enough room.

     I sit on the inside towards the middle, and I don’t even notice the wave out the back behind the smaller one in front of me. PV breaks slow and mooshy, so gradual. Even though I’m deep, I know that the wave will break late and allow me time to get into position. I dart for the outside, swinging towards the shoulder to make sure it doesn’t break on me. It takes a lot of paddle and kick to get into it. I lower my chin. The wave is four-feet and racy, but soft, soft without power but still fun. I pump and make it to the open face. I top turn without much power because of the mellow slope of the wave and lack of board volume, but it’s still fun. I manage to pump and make it to the end section to get one more turn.

     Paddling back, I’m stoked. I turn around, and Briana’s getting worked on the inside.

     That first wave was better than my whole morning sesh. Just like that, I’m redeemed. I feel better about the whole day, and I’m so glad that I’m here instead of at home on my computer, looking at Westside Rentals and filtering out rental scams on Craigslist.

     The surf is by no means “pumping,” but it’s still good enough to catch waves with a potato chip. The lulls don’t last long, as the bigger set waves roll through consistently.

     Briana makes it out. I call her into waves, but it’s been almost two weeks since she surfed, so her pop up is really slow. A four-foot set wave comes. She’s in perfect position while she’s paddling. Her board is even angled down the line. There’s nothing but open shoulder before her, but the speed of the drop discombobulates her. She rides it on her belly, standing up somewhere in the middle of the ride. And I can’t ride her too much. I still think she’s doing better than I was when I was back at her stage of surfing.

     On another wave that’s bigger and walled up, she purls while she’s on her belly, half way down the face. It’s a brutal wipeout. I forgot what it’s like to eat shit with a big ass log strapped to you. She resurfaces, unscathed.

     As for me . . . I’m having ridiculous fun. Not a buffet like the four hour power sesh I had with J on December seventh, but I’m just getting long, clean rides, with at least one solid turn—fun single shots. The trick is to catch them really late since they’re so mooshy. Once I pop up it’s a race down the long peak to get to the open face. From there I practice my frontside carves. I try to grab the rail on a turn, but I fall; I’m not there yet.

     The sun sets which gives off an orange glow over the low horizon. The majestic cliffs behind us are now turning black, with the houses overlooking us becoming faint shapes in the dark wall. Still, the same surfers are in the water, milking the last rays of light for that last wave before the long trek up top.

     Bri gets a left. It was a good one because she disappears for a long ass time. When she comes back, we catch out last ones in.

#

     We change and head out for dinner at Alejo’s in Westchester. After that we head back to my place, talking about how good it was and how we enjoyed our evening together. She falls asleep for ten minutes, but I wake her up. She has to go because she’s only “allowed” to stay here two nights a week. . . . I’m apartment hunting all day tomorrow.