WEAK WINDSWELL, SUN 22JUN2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1130

Crew: Bri

Conditions: onshore, crowded, sunny, warm, 1-2 FT.

     Figuring that a dawn patrol would be a waste for tiny conditions, Bri and I slept in and headed to the beach late. Too bad the whole South Bay community had the same idea.

     There was no street parking anywhere. The same cars zoomed past, all in the same chase for a space. An old lady was standing in an empty spot yelling into her cell phone, holding it for whomever she was talking to. I gave up and went to Porto. Lot closed. All the residential streets surrounding MB was chaos.

     We finally went to a parking area that I refer to as my “Secret Garden” and found a spot immediately. Only issue was the long walk.

     The beach was packed, a typical summer day with blazing hot sun, teenage ass, and bare-backed studs strutting their shiny buff chests. The only local I knew that was out was an old lady who rides a Costco foamie and wears a boonie hat. The rest of the crowd was day trippers, most of them in wetsuits.

     I had prepared for the small surf, rocking the hand-me-down 6’8 NSP that my friend Dais had let Bri borrow. Armed with a funboard, I braced the tiny onshore conditions.

     Surprisingly, I had a lot of fun. It’s nice to ride something different when the conditions call for it. The NSP made the small surf feel punchy. The speed upon sliding down the face made for fun rides. I tried walking the nose but couldn’t quite get my toes over. I’m a terrible cross stepper and don’t plan on ever mastering it. But even though people were in my way, I was able to turn the bulky board and steer the nose away from them.

     There was one kid learning how to surf. He tried paddling for every wave, flailing while his legs dragged off the sides of his deck. I took a right, and even though he saw that I was on it, he still went for it and wiped out right in front of me. I steered out of his way. He looked at me and smiled, not knowing that he had just committed a surf etiquette no-no. But I didn’t want to be a “regulator,” so I left a few waves after.

     Walking back up the hill later, the noob and his homeboy drove by in their truck. Their boards were in the back while they joked and laughed with red burnt faces. Their eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses. They had surfed like shit, but sitting in their seats, they sure looked like they knew how to rip. 

SAW A SHARK AND GOT OUT, SAT 21JUN2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0600-0800

Crew: Bri

Conditions: glassy, clean, 1-2 FT.

     There were rumors that the recent windswell was good, so I decided to stay local, especially since I had a camp trip scheduled the following week. As appealing as HB sounded, I didn’t want to burn the gas.

     Upon arriving at Manhattan Beach, there were small lines rolling in consistently, in front of the tower and to the north and south. I hoped that the lowering tide would make the waves stand up better as the morning went on.

     There were already surfers sitting on both sides of the tower. As small as the waves were, there were occasional sets almost three-feet. The fat peaks broke close to shore but lined up for a few pumps. I managed one left and went down the line.

     I waved at one of the locals who I know, an older guy named Jon who wears a Rastafarian rashguard. He shot me a shaka back. I meant to talk to him, but upon looking back, he was walking back onto the shore and looking behind him. Pretty soon four other guys who had been surfing with him also got out. Everyone had his eyes on the water, and I already had a feeling on what was up.

     It was one of those moments where I could’ve chosen to be a bitch and gotten out. Or, I could’ve been an idiot if my life was in danger, but I ignored the obvious warning.

     I paddled to the spot where they were all at, and then I caught another small left. Only two other guys had refused to get out. They were talking to each other, mumbling about how the other guys were bitches.

     Jon paddled back out, pointed next to him in the water, and said that there had been a shark right there. The other guys on the shore left.

     I was comfortable staying in the lineup knowing that there were a lot of other people out. A swimmer in the water was flagged down by some SUP guys who warned him about the shark. The swimmer swam closer to shore.

     I looked back at Jon. He was gone. Something had really spooked him.

     Later in the session, the waves didn’t improve much. I waited for the waves that never came.

     Out in front of me, the tip of a dorsal and tail fin poked out of the water, disturbing the surface as it wiggled past. An SUP guy raced after it and pulled out his GoPro to take pics of it. It was just a baby.

SAY “YES” TO WINDSWELL, WED 18JUN2014

Loc: 40^th Street

Time: 0545-0845

Crew: Dave T., Manny A., Gary C.

Conditions: glassy, clean, 1-3 FT.

     I got a text from Gary yesterday, giving me the heads up on a dawn patrol with the fellas. 0510, he said. That means an early wakeup this morning, so I’m up at 0430.

     I meet at the rendezvous site at 0510. Gary’s already here. He shows me the L.A. King’s design on the bottom of his C.I. New Flyer. Dave rolls up, and Gary flashes him his board too.

     This is a legit dawn patrol. Manny’s the last person to pull up and park. There are no other surfers in sight.

     When I’m fully changed, I realize that Gary and Dave are already gone. Wow. Serious frothers, right? Wasted no time.

     I trot down to 40^th Street with Manny while he tells me about his encounter with Sunny Garcia at Lowers a couple years ago. These WHC guys, they always have cool stories.

     At the shoreline, Gary and Dave are just about done warming up. Before us, clean two-footers roll into an empty lineup. As far north and south as I can see, we are the first surfers to break sand on the beach.

     Manny’s on a foam longboard. “No leash when you’re riding one of these,” he says. He paddles out first, immediately scoring two back-to-back waves. It’s odd seeing him on a fun board since he’s a ripper.

     Upon initial submersion into the ocean, I feel how warm the water is. I could’ve trunked it.

     Porto’s a playground at first, consistent with wave after wave. The four of us trade off, going in circles like a conveyor belt. My first left looks small, but upon popping up it’s racy and fun. I get a turn. My Motorboat Too thrives in these conditions.

     Gary gets a juicy set-wave right, throwing a small bucket out the back as he milks it all the way to shore. We have it to ourselves for about forty-five minutes before we get invaded by the post-dawn patrollers.

     After they leave, the surf hits a window of inconsistency. It almost looks like the lowering tide is making things more lully and small.

     Roy, another MB local, paddles out next to me. He usually surfs at my favorite spot, but he says that it’s bigger here. I tell him I’ve been at HB lately, and he says that he’s been at Zeroes.

     I thought that I was surfing pretty well this morning, but Roy goes to work right away, paddling into the tiniest waves but going the distance. After watching the Roy Show, I put myself to work and start moving around the lineup for better positioning. A peaky left stands up, and I’m in the perfect spot. It’s a three footer. I pump on the highline to make the section, and a longboarder is about to drop in on me. I decide to pull the get-off-of-my-wave card and hoot him off of the shoulder. He backs off. With a spilled section in front of me, I bottom-turn underneath it, climb the face, and get a good gouge on the shoulder, full weight on the tail. The feeling’s like being on a drug, the sensation I’ve been waiting for.

     Roy throws me a shaka on the way back out. “Lotsa spray,” he says. It means a lot hearing that from him.

     The lineup gets more crowded. Wagner is out here on a SUP. He’s usually standoffish with me, not smiling or saying hi, but today he paddles up to me and says, “Good morning.” I guess I caught him on a good day.

     Later in the session, he switches to his shortboard, and he’s just busting airs the whole time, a fucking highlight reel.

     The set waves are inconsistent, but they’re out there. When the clock strikes 0845, I gotta head in before I get a ticket.

     Hall & Oats’ “Private Eye” bumps on my stereo as I cruise back home through Main Street El Segundo. I’m laughing to myself, car-dancing to the music, and it’s only nine o’clock. What a difference a good session makes to start the day.