HEIRARCHY, WED 23JAN2013 MOR

Loc: Hammerland

Time: 1015-1145

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-6 FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy and barrels, gnarly, crowded.

     On the way to Manhattan Beach, I get a glimpse of Hammerland. There’s a lone left with nobody on it. Wow, I’m thinking. It looks a little hollow, empty, but at the same time I think: It’s gonna be one of “those” days.

     I pull into 45^th. It looks walled, not worth the paddle out. I go further south, score on parking, step out, and check the surf. It’s bigger here, just as walled. I see a corner or two. Some pro in a white and neon orange wetsuit is being filmed. He’s catching the inside waves. I see him crank two turns, stall, pump on the inside section and do a 360 air attempt. Impressive, but he’s the only one catching waves.

     There’s a gym bag in the back of my wagon. In it is a set of Skull Candy headphones, tennis shoes, a gym towel, and a lock. I’ve brought this with me in case the surf sucks or is too walled. Yup . . . there’s the gym bag. And then . . . there’s my conscience. . . . “Practice pulling in.” Direct words from my bro. It’s because in Java this summer it’s gonna be the real deal. No turns, just barrels, and anyone that knows me knows that I still have yet to be barreled. I suck at getting barreled. I just do. If I didn’t, it would’ve happened by now.

     So, that being said . . . I can get in my wagon, head to the gym, and work on my flabby glutes. . . . Or . . . I can get some barrel practice.

          DO I TAKE THE RED PILL OR THE BLUE PILL?!

KING OF THE MOUNTAIN:

     I’m watching Hammers from the Grand Avenue parking lot. A set wave comes in, breaking just a little wide off of the jetty. It’s round but fast, FUCK-ING FAST! I’m cursing myself while I’m suiting up, filled with anxiety. I’m a masochist; I must be. My surf demons are coming out. I imagine that I’m gonna be getting worked, pounded, humiliated, and yet I’m on this self deprecating tirade while I’m waxing my board, shoving quarters in the meter, and getting ready to paddle out. I’m a buffoon on different levels, but I think I’m so God damn hard on myself because I REALLY WANT TO GET BARRELED. I mean, I really want to get better, to just reach this fucking milestone so bad, you have no idea. I’m like the soldier that hasn’t been to combat, the teenager that hasn’t gotten vagina yet. No bragging rights, not part of the cool crowd. Of course, I’m not a bragger and fuck the cool crowd, but I think you know what I’m saying. I am hard on myself, I want to be the surfer that I visualize myself being, and I want to at least reach a level closer to my brother too, and every time I get close and don’t reach it, it fucking kills me, so that’s where this anxiety comes from.

     I begin my trot to the jetty, and now I see that there are now guys sitting on the left. As I get closer, I see a guy catch a wave next to the rocks, pull in, and drive before being swallowed up. It was a fast wave, but he pulled in and made it some distance. I respect that.

     The lifeguard station is being manned. I imagine what the lifeguard must be thinking, that he’s watching guys one awkward wipeout away from needing assistance. At the same time, he gets the real life show; front row seats to the best surf report of the South Bay. What a job.

     I wait for the right window, thinking that this lifeguard is probably betting himself whether I’m gonna get worked or not. The water’s cold, but not as cold as Sunday’s chill fest. I try to calm my adrenaline by breathing slowly, and miraculously I pick a good window, avoiding oblivion.

     Three guys own the top of the wave at Hammers, while at least a dozen other guys are sitting on the right on the other side. Another guy paddles past me, and he exchanges greetings with the guys at the top of the wave. I faintly recognize two of the guys, but other than them, I’ve never seen the other guys in my life. That’s when it occurs to me, this hierarchy that takes place when the South Bay gets walled. When the conditions get gnarly out here, in contrast to the everyday crowd, only a certain breed comes out to play. When the conditions are walled and dumpy with an occasional barrel, there are only a few takers. And right here before me, is an exclusive group. . . . I have a feeling I don’t belong.

     I can’t insert myself into the lineup. For one, I have to be honest. I’m not gonna sit at the top with the wolves if I can’t even handle these fucking waves. I sit wide as usual and watch . . . and watch . . . and watch. Guys are getting waves at the top. A lot of them are closeouts, but some of them get distance. Some guys take off right in front of the rocks but further out and barely make it. I watch until I get frustrated. I’m mad at myself again. What the fuck am I doing out here? Those guys look back and see me sitting in the same fucking place holding onto this board like it’s a dick I can’t get off of. Finally, I go. I just go for the fuck of it. Go just to go instead of sitting here. I’ll take the fucking waves nobody wants. FUCK IT.

     I catch a bomb, a less walled bomb, and wouldn’t you know? It’s actually fun! I pop up early and pull in, just enough to get a glimpse before I’m pulverized. I resurface. I’m okay. Guys on the outside watch me paddle back. I catch another one. Same thing. Fuck it. Closeout, pull in, little shot of the barrel, just enough to get a whiff, not even a TASTE, but it’s better than nothing. I get more confident, sit closer to the rocks. I feel I’ve earned a spot closer to the jetty.

     The set waves are no joke. They are so big that you’d think that they have to be walled, but there is a shoulder all the way at the end. The waves break different at the jetty. Guys are catching them really far out, making it past the rocks, and pumping all the way until it gets hollow towards the inside.

     I try to paddle for these, but since I’m not at the top of the wave, I don’t have a chance; someone’s always on it. Out of frustration, I sit a little on the inside to catch the insiders, but I’m a bit deep on one. I paddle and get catapulted. Still, when I resurface I’m all right. Charlie the Porto vet paddles past me and says hi. He’s a cool guy. He makes it to the lineup where he’s greeted like a gladiator making his way to the arena.

MISSED BOMBS:

     Fuck, my bro told me that his friend Daz had said, “Talking about your surfing is like talking about sleeping with your wife . . . you just don’t do it.” At first it didn’t make sense to me, but now I understand why. It’s because it’s an honest account that really, most people wouldn’t want to share with anyone else. In my case, it’s really humbling. I don’t have the stories to brag about triumphant breakthroughs about being spat out of big barrels. No, I have to tell stories about eating SHIT! In fact, I don’t even think rippers would even be interested in this blog because their levels are beyond this; they’re past this phase.

     There’s a bomb, easy six feet. It’s big, I’m at a deep take off spot, it looks tapered, but it’s so intimidating. I mean, I know it’s gonna go round, it has to with the way everything is breaking. My balls shove up to my stomach, and I let it pass. Now the demons come back. I hate myself. IDIOT.

     On the next one, a guy is deeper than me, but as he’s paddling he lets up. I’m paddling too. His eyebrows rise. I can’t hear him, but his lips are moving, saying, “Go.”

     I paddle. It’s a steep drop. As I’m sliding down the face my foot slips to the nose of my board. I eat shit. Fuck, I tried.

     Now the sets are really coming in. I see everyone facing the jetty, and I hear people yelling. I look over, and there’s a guy, high and dry on top of the rocks. He’s not like, at the rocks where it meets the water. He is almost on top of the high rocks were people can walk on TOP of the jetty. He’s shaken, struggling to crawl off.   

     A half dozen “Are you all rights” can be heard until the kid makes it. I’ve seen his face before.

     On every bomb, someone is on it. I’m not at the top of the wave. I can’t get a ride. I almost do, but this guy goes. I see the lip curl over him as he leans backwards and puts his hands at the small of his back, stylish. When he resurfaces on the inside, he says to his buddy, “I hit my nose.”

     I don’t know exactly how he got hurt, but he paddles in. No mas.

     I really want to end my session right, but my meter’s almost up, and it’s a long jog back to the lot. I catch a closeout in.

     It’s an odd feeling coming home. I love surfing, I do, but at the same time it’s disturbing how this new level of surfing that I’m trying to achieve . . . fuck, man. It’s not easy.

KK GETS SOME COBBLESTONES, MON 21JAN2013 EVE

 

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1530-1730

Crew: Bri & Klaude

Conditions: 2-3+ FT, inconsistent, clean, glassy, cool, walled on the set waves.

     I want to surf this morning, but Bri wants to paddle out after work, and there’s no way that I’m gonna do a double session today, so I wait until the evening. Klaude gives me a call later, says he missed the morning window too. I extend the invite for him to join me and Bri at PV if he wants to hop in the surfmobile with us. He doesn’t commit, but I tell him I’ll shoot him a text before I go just in case.

     When I’m packing up later that day, I shoot him the text, and then he just decides to show up to my apartment.

     For some reason, the weather in SoCal is extremely warm, like pre October, fall weather. Isn’t this still supposed to be winter? I entice Klaude, saying that Bri and I have scored the last some-odd times that we’ve been there, and then I of course extend an apology in advance in case we get bamboozled.
     “Maaaan,” he says. “You’re not Poseidon, you don’t have to apologize.”

     This is true, but I can’t help it. For some reason, people get skunked most of the time when I’m leading the charge on a surf mission.

     On the way to PV, the Porto Jetty looks like there’s size. I can’t really tell, but it almost looks like there are fun waves. The conditions look equally satisfying in the water too. I wonder if Klaude regrets making this trip.

     Parks, the Pier, it looks like there’s still size. Torrance Beach has a lot of surf activity. Girls are in short jean shorts, roller blading; people are showing skin like it’s the summer again. The activity is good. It means there are waves.

     As soon as we round the bend to park by the cove, we see a long line of cars already parked, something Bri and I haven’t encountered on our recent sessions here. We end up parking all the way at the top, but . . . despite the crowd, I have a feeling that there’s surf down there. I’m stoked.

     We change and make our way down. It’s my first time surfing PV with KK, so I’m excited. The trek down the trail is typical. The waves look small, mostly longboarders are out there, and they are sitting on the inside. It looks small . . . it usually does, but I know that sitting in the lineup is a whole different story.    

     KK and I try to pull a Seal Team Six and scale down this steep as short cut, while Bri ops to take the long way. I damn near slip and break my ass, and by the time we reach the trail, Bri is already ahead of us. Some shortcut.

     Surfers are both heading back up and going down. I’m antsy. KK and Bri warm up while I head out. The paddle is long, long as always. I let the water wash over me instead of duckdiving. I don’t want to ding my board, so I wait until I’m at the lineup. Once I’m there, there’s a long ass lull. The day before was lully too. I’m sitting wide north of the longboarders who are dominating the main peak. Everyone is sitting and waiting . . . not good. I watch the waves break there with more consistency, but they are small, two feet. At least four waves break over there before any activity starts at my spot. Klaude makes his way out and sits with the crowd. He’s on his Don Kadowaki Rocket, and even though there’s volume on that board, there’s no way he can compete against those logs.

     I keep an eye on him to see if he gets anything, but . . . someone’s always on the wave first. I feel bad.

     Bri sits out there with him, and then she comes over towards me.

     My first wave is a closeout. Most of the waves swinging wide are too racy, or the shoulder is just so far wide, so wide that I always find myself deep. The best I can do is get a couple pumps in.

     Klaude paddles over and joins. “I kind of snaked a guy,” he says.

     Oh well. Shit happens. I catch another closeout, but on the way back to the lineup, Bri gets a set wave. It has a shoulder. She takes a while to pop up, but when she does, she’s still drawing a line high up on the face. For the first time at PV, she’s standing up in perfect position with a full vantage point; she’s going down the line. I can’t tell you how stoked I am for her. She’s on that flamer NSP, and now she’s put that fucker to good use, exactly what it was made for. I’m a proud boyfriend.

     Even though the conditions aren’t epic, there is such good energy between the three of us, and we can’t even blame the waves too much. I’m in perfect position for a left. KK goes on it too, but he’s too deep, behind the section, and I pull out just in case.

     “You should have went,” says Klaude.

     I’m silent.

     “Shiiit, I would have snaked you,” he says.

     I smile. I don’t know. I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’m not sure if he could have made the section.

     I blow a perfectly good right. Sometimes when I’m not on point, I can’t turn as I’m climbing from my backhand, and I end up going over the wave. I got issues. On another right, Bri accidentally snakes me.

     Then Klaude gets this fucking left. It’s barely, and I mean BARELY three fucking feet. He paddles and disappears. “Oh,” I’m thinking. And then . . . fuckin’ guy pops up. There’s a shoulder in front of him. And he’s pumping; he just keeps going and going and going. He catches that motherfucker ALL THE WAY to shore. He had to be in the shallows when he finally got off his board.

     Now . . . I can sleep tonight. Klaude got a fuckin’ good wave, so did Bri.

     Once the sun sets, the crowd thins out. There are a couple new faces that have rushed it, shortboarders. We all sit more compact at the main peak, easier now since there are less of us. KK passes on a wave, leaving me on the inside. It’s a small wave, but surprisingly it has some fun, pumpy shape. I get one carve to end it.

     “How much longer are you guys surfing?” says Klaude.

     The guy’s blind, and it’s getting dark. I tell him to meet me on the inside.

     I’ve never seen the water so clear at PV. It’s a combination of the protection from the cliff keeping the wind out, and there’s something about cold water that keeps all the little, floaty barnacles in their place underwater. I can see the kelp and rocks, even when I’m duckdiving. I’d be able to see a shark coming (I’d like to think). I want to stay out until it’s dark, to be the last one out of the water, but maybe cutting out right now’s not such a bad idea. We can walk the trail, still see the orange over the horizon, and change before it’s pitch black.

     It’s a fun drive home. The good energy continues. No, not epic, but a legitimate good session we had. We all have that stoked, surf buzz, that “glaze.” It’s like medication or a pill that’s kicked in, a surfer’s high. The sense of accomplishment from doing nothing but being a part of nature and riding a wave. Three surfers head back home, having ended their day in a perfect way.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SURF?, SUN 20JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0800-1030

Crew: Khang, Dais, Klaude

Conditions: 3 FT, inconsistent, hot air, freezing water, crowded, walled.

Dedication to PABS:

     When I took my trip to Bali from June to July of 2011, I was surprised at the small handful of new followers that began to comment on my blog. One of them was PABS, a dedicated NorCal surfer and surf blogger. I reciprocated his kindness and started following his blog as well, which I found straight-to-the-point (not longwinded like me) and supported by many of his ominous photos of his secret, foggy, and sharky surf spots of the NorCal coast. About a year ago, we exchanged phone numbers and planned to meet up for a surf since he was coming down south to visit some friends. I was in the midst of a break up at that time and preoccupied because of it, but we were able to agree to meet up on a specific date. Unfortunately, he ended up calling me a few days later, saying that he had injured himself surfing and that he would be out of commission for a while. I had no idea what the magnitude of his surf injury was and how it would affect his health.

     Surfing Grandma of the OC recently contacted me with the terrible and shocking news that PABS, Paul Andrew (Pablo) Koontz, had passed away on January 13^th. I cannot say that I met him in person or even counted as what one would define as a “friend.” However, I feel I had a connection with him through surfing and his blogs.

     He told me in an e-mail that “he couldn’t wait to have the full SoCal Donny Duckbutter experience” in reference to my pics of surf and post-surf AYCE sushi missions. I deeply regret not making myself more available to hang out with him a year ago and to at least have had the chance to meet him in person. I thought “there would be another time.” Well there wasn’t. Life is short, as everyone says, and now the stoked, friendly voice over the phone, fellow surf brother and surf blogger, who always exchanged encouraging comments and feedback, is now gone. I’m still shocked and speechless. I’ll miss him. Here’s a link to his blog and obit:

http://onemancrowd.blogspot.com/

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/times-standard/obituary.aspx?n=paul-andrew-koontz-pablo&pid=162420709#.UPv8hr4uwQg.facebook

CHILL:

     I show up a little late to surf. I have a feeling that Klaude is already out there. Surprisingly, the air temp is warm. Mucho warm. However, Klaude warned me yesterday that the water was bone-chilling cold. It sounds just about right. When one factor (air temp) is at a glorious level, something else has to be present to fuck that up.

     Once I get to the sand I see Klaude out there. It’s a crowded lineup. Both locals and weekend warriors are out there, probably the nice weather brought them out.

     My ankles turn to ice the second I step into the water. Fuck me. I mean, literally, my ankles are already going numb. Probably not a good day for my 3/2 Rip Curl wetsuit, the one that’s so gawd damn flexible because . . . it’s almost like wearing nothing. Well . . . I have a feeling that that thin layer of neoprene isn’t gonna do much for warmth.

     I mean fucking COLD! I don’t even want to duck dive. I make it out and my hair’s still fuckin’ dry. KK and I usually do this hug thing the second we see each other. I really don’t want to because I’m frozen stiff.

#

     The surf itself is another story. The peaks are coming in long and walled with a little corner at the end of them, but it’s not even that big and the waves are breaking like that.

     Khang and Dais show up. Later on so does Tom. Calvin’s been there, so has Roy, Orlando, and every other Manhattan Beach vet, but catching a wave is another story.

     Closeouts. Non critical, injury-free closeouts. On top of that, I have an ice cream headache from duckdiving. The whole sesh I’m fucking miserable; I can barely talk! I struggle to get anything with a turn, but the boys are here; we’re together. It’s a day to get some face time, especially before my semester starts again.

One Left One Turn:

     So I’m a little behind the section on this wave. I got prime position. For some reason everyone is on the inside. It’s about three feet. I pop up and start making my way to the open face. I bottom turn just from below the midline and draw a nice arc on off the top. I look forward and see Khang on the inside. I straighten out.

     Klaude and Khang hoot me on as I make my way back.

     “I saw you on the inside,” I say.

     “Yeah,” says Khang. “You could have pumped over me.”

     I wasn’t upset that he was on the inside during my ride, I had kicked-out out of courtesy. It just seems right. I would’ve hated to have gone for it, wiped out, and then resurfaced next to each other; it would’ve been a dangerous situation. I think I usually play it safe in those situations.

     Later, Khang gets a left and disappears below the wave. From there a nasty bucket gets tossed out the back. Dais and I give him props. It’s good spray, and his surfing is really progressing.

     As for me, that one left is all I get. Klaude and I leave since we’ve been out there for a little while, but we head to The Blue Butterfly in El Segundo for some bagel sandwiches. Rick meets us there later to shoot the shit.

     Sometimes when the surf is small, you miss gnarly closeouts. For now, there isn’t much surf.