CHOOSE WISELY, FRI 28MAR2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0645-1000

Conditions: 4 FT, glassy, offshore, high tide, inconsistent, crowded.

     I paddle out at Porto, in front of the bathrooms, and spot Gary sitting outside. He paddles into a right. I had planned to surf here at first light before the tide, and . . . I was right. The wind is offshore, the water is glassy, and the peaks are scattered enough to be working from 45^th Street to the bathrooms, the sandwich shack, Rosecrans, and even further south.

     A bomb comes my way. I’m deep. Late. But I go for it anyway, resulting in the lip crashing onto my back, sending me into the depths.

     “That was such a good wave,” says Gary. “You were late, but you had to go.”

     Of course. When in the company of veteran chargers who shred, it’s always better to go too late than not go at all. If not, you’ll get your Porto Pass revoked.

     I had ditched the fish this morning, leaving it in the wagon. I’m on the Mini Driver. After yesterday’s beatings, I vowed to use my shortboards when the conditions call for it, and whipping out the Mini Driver seemed like a good idea. Our peak in front of the bathrooms slows down. Even 45^th does a little. Gary looks at me and gives me a shrug that tells all: The tide is killing it.

     At 0800 he leaves, so I book it back up the hill to swap boards. Really, I should’ve been on this board from the get go, but from the top of the hill it had looked like shortboard conditions.

     And even though the surf has swamped out and slowed down, nothing stops the incoming surf crowd. It’s Spring Break right now, but even grown ass adults who should be at work are out here. Is the economy still that bad? Are so many people still unemployed? Or maybe we’re all just surfers, right? Fucking the system, doing whatever it takes to be in the water, at all costs, whenever the conditions are right.

     Despite the excellent conditions, nothing can beat this tide but time. There are occasional outside waves that sweep through, but being in position is a bitch. Either the roguers break outside, or the inside waves break—nothing in between.

     I have a chance at a left. There’s a guy on my outside, I pop up late, looking down. Sticking the landing, I look down the line to prepare to pump, but some old guy is on the shoulder, heading straight towards me . . . going right on a LEFT. So I bail. I worry that the guy’s gonna run over my board. When I resurface, I see that the guy realizes he’s on a left and not a right, so he struggles to cutback and go down the line. Amazingly, I’m not pissed, like how I would usually be. It’s just so crowded and frustrating right now, I simply accept that this is EL PORTO.

     I’m “over it” at 0900, but I can’t leave. I’m stubborn. I know that the window’s gonna get good. I estimate by 0945-1000 the tide will drop. God willing, if the wind stays calm a good window of surf will open.

     I paddle back towards the bathrooms, and I get my first waves in almost an hour, but they are so mooshy that I get entry cutbacks and have to crouch down to stay in the pocket. There are bodies everywhere—elbow to elbow in the lineup and on the inside.

     Not only did I choose poorly when it came to board selection this morning, but I should have known that Porto would be packed. I should have known that the swell is backing out, compounded with a high-tide means that I should have done what I did yesterday—wait for the right window.

     Walking away from the surf, I turn around and face it once more. The peaks are beginning to stand up. It’s breaking well again from Rosecrans to 45^th. The size is down to 3-4 FT, but it’s still playful out there

     And I had been up since 0545. That was me, eating a banana in the dark with a cup of orange juice, expecting a solid session. 

FISH BLIND, THU 27MAR2014

Never underestimate the surf, even when it's high tide and it looks like this.

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0900-1030

Conditions: 3-5 FT, scattered peaks, high tide, consistent, punchy, fast.

     I’m choosing to surf with my fish today, and why not? Looking down at 45^th Street, I’m stoked to see that the wind has finally calmed down. Even though it’s onshore right now, it’s light. The ocean is far from glassy, but it’s rideable. I don’t see anyone in the lineup “selling it,” but the high-tide peaks are big, fat, and rideable. Why not use the fish?

     It’s a pristine day with a pristine parking spot. I had checked the cams in the morning and waited for this window of opportunity, right now, right here, this is where the surf lull ends and the surf stoke begins.

     I must be hot shit in my disco suit. “Disco” meaning that my Hurley wetsuit is loud as shit with the white shoulder pads. Okay, but I’m not. In fact, I admit, I’m a Barney, and I’ll prove it to you . . .

     The Porto parking lot is only a quarter full at this nine o’clock hour. There are barely a dozen heads out from the bathrooms to 45^th, and I wonder if they’ve all been waiting for this window too.

     Down at the shore, as opposed to viewing the ocean from atop the hill, the surf looks more walled and sectiony that it had earlier. It’s a long paddle out. A shortboarder in the impact zone ditches his board, pinches his nostrils, and dives under the wall of whitewash stampeding over him.

     But when you’re hot shit, you time your paddle out right and make it out to the lineup unscathed like me.

     Don’t ask me if this is a windswell or a groundswell, but I’ll take a guess and say that this is windswell. The peaks are coming in consistently, scattered, and mixed with walls and shoulders. The high tide makes the waves appear soft, but there is size. Due to the legit five-foot faces, soft waves still need to be respected.

     As soon as I reach the lineup, I turn-and-go on a mooshy three footer. The face turns into marble white foam from the last wave that had swept through. The surface is choppy, so I draw my torso back into a sloppy cutback. I’m standing too far forward. My arc is too long, but I still rebound off of the lip and milk the rest of the wave as it dissipates.

     Retrieving my board, all the way on the inside again, I feel great.

     Great . . . there’s a set coming my way. My fish is wide and thick, giving me plenty of speed. Duckdiving my first wall of foam, the nose of my board shoots up and jerks back towards shore like a cat thrown into water. What the fuck? Again on the next wave. I had underestimated the surf. Yes, these are high tide conditions, but there seems to be a lot of water moving around.

     Back at the lineup, I catch another left, and it’s another ugly ride. Regardless, I at least get distance, cutting back into the wave on the end section before it fizzles out, but every wave has its price.

     The inside is a frickin’ treadmill. I haven’t been worked like this in a while. Duckdiving my fish feels like I’m trying to duckdive a wide table or a fucking stage. Winded with heaving breaths, I tell myself that this is at least good for my cardio.

     Some guy says something to me in the water. I can barely hear him because I have my earplugs in.

     “It’s only this left,” he says. “No rights.”

     “You gotta be picky,” I say. I usually don’t talk much in the lineup because sometimes surfers are too into their egos, you’d be lucky enough just to get a smile, but it’s always refreshing to meet someone cool in the lineup, which in this case I’m down to geek out and run my mouth.

     Just as he had said, “There are no rights,” but there is a “right” right in front of me.

     Picture the perfect high-tide section during a scattered session. I’m right on the shoulder, and the wave looks flat where I’m sitting. I paddle and kick as the wave hits the sandbar. The flat shoulder jacks up, sprouting an open face that lines up. Popping up, I see the other surfers over the shoulder, looking back at me. In this case, the fish is perfect. It’s gotten me into this wave early and with stability from the shoulder, but now the face is standing up. Drawing a deep bottom turn, I climb the face and get my first top turn, whipping my nose back down the face and tossing some water out the back. The face is still open, so I get a second one.

     I’m beyond stoked and beyond my one-turn quota. I can’t wait to be in the lineup again. (Don’t act like you haven’t been there, when others recognize you for a good ride and say, “nice wave.” It’s not just me.) I want to paddle through the lineup, knowing that I caught the wave of the day, but this is where the beat down begins.

     Looking over the next wave, everyone is darting for the outside. I had caught the first wave of the set, and I’m in the perfect spot to get pounded. With the tide going down, the lips are starting to get a little round, true Porto style. I duckdive and get obliterated by the lip, getting sucked down so far that I hit bottom. Second wave is brutal. Third wave the board is yanked from my grip. I look around. I’m the only jackass that’s caught inside. Hyperventilating, my instinct is half-telling me to turn around and call the session, but I can’t. Too much pride here. Surfers on the shore can’t see me turn and bail like that.

     And then I finally do make it back out. Fuckin’ A. My mouth’s hanging open like an elderly guy who’s just been ass raped. Porto’s made me pay for each wave that I’ve caught. Everyone else around me’s on shortboards. Wrong choice on my part. I’ve been fish-blinded. 

WHEN TO CALL IT, MON 24MAR2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0800-0945

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, overcast, low tide, punchy, fast

     Sometimes you have to know when to call it instead of hanging around, doing overtime for one more wave.

     This morning, I cruised through Porto, there was decent shape. It seems to hold the low tide better, especially at 45^th. From there I cruised further south, where the surf is usually less crowded, and it was a foot smaller. I turned back around, luckily scoring parking on Highland.

     The sky was overcast and depressing. It would have been easy to stay in bed. I chose my Kainalu Fish over my shortboard today since the surf looked small.

     Dots of surfers lined 45^th Street to 42^nd, and there were gaps of dead space between the bathrooms and Rosecrans.

     Sitting in the lineup, some guy yelled to his friend, “They found the Malaysian Airliner!” I couldn’t help but eavesdrop because I’ve been wondering if they’ll find that plane or not. Have I been out of the news loop that long?

     Some groms were in the lineup, and an old guy said that it was their Spring Break.

     It didn’t take long for the waves to start coming in. Towards the outside, long peaks would sprout up, giving workable shoulders at their ends. The low tide made the waves stand up as soon as they hit the sandbar. Surprisingly, the sets were a little bigger than three feet.

     I cursed myself for the wrong board selection. I’ve been spoiling myself with this fish, and even though I had set up all my boards for specific conditions, I’ve gained some weight, and the Mini Driver is my only second option until I get lighter for my smaller boards.

     My first wave was a closeout, and I pulled in even though there was no hope for glory. Paddling back to the lineup, a small inside wave came my way. I turned and went on it, and then I wound up gliding down the line on its clean three-foot face. Despite the weather, the water was glassy—no wind.

     As the wave softened up on the inside, I cranked my first top turn, but I drew such a long arc that I transferred the energy into a small cutback. I almost lost the wave, so I took a step forward to push the nose back down the face, and I slid right in. That wave was the best wave out of the last three or four sessions I had surfed.

     After that, I kept pulling in on the closeouts, even pig dogging on my backhand. I purled doing so on one. My fish wasn’t made for surfing like that.

     However, I still manage two more fun rides, going left and right.

     With the tide going down, the waves were getting faster, but they were still fun. I thought about the things I had to do today: write this blog, read at least a hundred pages out of a novel for class, and respond to some work email. I could have easily pointed my board back towards the lineup and milked the rest of the window, but I thought about calling it. Why not? I had already caught three decent waves. I could get an early start on today’s business without draining myself of energy. And was today the day to stay out for a marathon session?

     I had fulfilled my stoke quota with the three fun waves that I got in less than two hours, and the surf wasn’t epic to justify an extended session.

     Back at my car changing, I felt like I had received just the right dose of surf, and I didn’t feel bad leaving it behind in order to start my day.

Here's another pic of my friend, Rick, snaking me yesterday. He actually fell hard on my board, but he didn't do any damage.