ZOMBIE SESH, FRI 04JUL2014

Loc: Somewhere north of L.A.

Crew: Rick, Dave T.

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: Overcast, choppy, low tide, critical, 4-5 FT.

     The night before the surf trip, I was stoked. Not only would I be surfing a critical wave with the homies Rick and Dave, but we’d be doing it with a building south swell.

     With a 0500 rendezvous time the following morning, I went to bed at 2300 to at least get five hours of sleep, just enough rest for the sesh ahead.

     I’m awoken in the middle of the night by Bri. “It’s your sister,” she says. There are missed calls on her phone. I look at my phone. More missed calls, and then my phone starts ringing. It’s only been an hour since I went to sleep.

     To make a long story short, I had a “family emergency” that absolutely could not wait. It was a life or death situation. Livelihood was on the line.

     I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. Everyone met up at my apartment as planned, and we rolled out at about 0500, I with only one hour of rest. Now my livelihood was at stake.

#

     This kind-of-a-secret wave barrels when it’s good. Upon arriving, we see an SUV with surfboards on its roof leaving. Bad sign. It’s an ominous overcast morning, and the conditions in the water only add to the foreboding energy. There’s chop on the surface. I’ve seen this place when it’s off its face, but it’s not its classic self. No one’s out, just a few fisherman wading the shoreline. There are some waves, but they’re just ugly.

     Of course we paddle out. We have to, especially after driving about an hour just to get here. On mornings like this, you just know that your local spot was probably the right call. But you gamble and you play your hand. No redeals this morning.

     I put on my wetsuit, but it doesn’t feel like I’m the one doing it. I’m on a sort of autopilot, in a half-asleep daze. The morning air, wind, and sound of the whitewash are just too much for me to take in. I can’t believe I’m paddling out. My body’s telling me that I should be lying down with my head on top of a pillow with my eyes shut. My body’s telling me that I should have just told Rick that I didn’t sleep for shit last night, and that I’d have to miss this surgical strike. But surfing with friends who take surfing seriously is about commitment. We don’t like flakes. Anti-flake policy, especially with the WHC.

     I’m on my Lost Mini Driver, in case there are barrels. Right now it’s hard to tell exactly what the surf is doing. It looks flat, but small bumps form in the distance. This spot is critical. Much more critical than HB. A small bump pitches right away, doubling up in size. I paddle out and let a few bombs pass for lack of good positioning. I don’t want to say that it’s six feet out here, but it’s a sketchy four-to-five feet. The peaks are A-framing, but the rights are shorter. I go right for the fuck of it. The wave stands up so fast. The lefts demand sobering technique as well. The medium sized ones have better shape. I purl on a few, get down the line a little on some others, and get to claim one decent frontside carve.

     Rick and Dave shine in these conditions. They are older than I, but their experience has them going for the biggest ones. Upon take off on the set waves, the lip throws out a little. Rick takes off extremely late on a wave that’s unforgiving for late take offs and still gets all the way to shore. Dave goes too, no fear. I’m like 50/50, meaning that I eat shit on at least half of the bombs I go on. One left just stands up so fast and sucks out from under me, that I’m standing on flat level water while the jaws of an open face gape open to chomp down on me. And it’s not even that big. At least it didn’t look that way from shore. Here, four-to-five feet goes a long way.

     Throughout the session, other surfers paddle out and sit north of us, but we have the best spot, and no one invades. They leave right away. Even though the surf deserves some merit, it’s still not a decent day, poor-to-far conditions at best.

     I surfed a shitty session. Maybe it could have been better if I had more rest. All I know is that I’m beat. It’s the fourth of July. Everyone who slept in is now making their way to the beach, after Dave and Rick already pillaged and plundered the ocean, leaving the leftover carcasses for the late day trippers. I feel pillaged and plundered myself. Rows of cars head in the opposite direction, barely starting their day. Meanwhile, my solo slumber party is finally winding down. We’re not even past Malibu, and I can barely keep my eyes open.

THE FRONTRUNNERS, THU 03JUL2014

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Time: 0645-0845

Conditions: Overcast, light south wind, consistent, 2-3FT+.

     Walking on the sand, out to the shoreline, we see small two-foot peaks rolling in. My initial reaction is to push it a little more south where it will be bigger, but then the set shows up. Scattered peaks everywhere, solid three feet plus.

     “Let’s paddle out,” says Bri.

     There are only a few surfers out. We can have this to ourselves.

     Changing at my car, a couple cars pull up. Surfers get out to check the surf. They leave.

     I sample the old school Tokoro that my brother had given to me years ago, my primary board before I got the Motorboat Too. I’ve been dusting off my old quiver lately, and I’m hoping to reestablish a relationship with my beach-break Tokoro, hoping that this morning’s surf is big enough to get redialed.

     I’m antsy and so impatient to get a wave on it. I move around too much, going for a small wave when a bigger one breaks out the back.

     This board is thin and narrow, but it has more rocker for waves that stand up more. From what I remember, it works well in punchy HB surf. I go left on my first wave, and right away it feels sluggish. I don’t have that drop-in speed that my groveler gives me, that extra volume, compacted in a short thick board. I’m slow going down the line. I try to turn but fall backwards. On my next wave, I go down the line, trying to keep up with it.

     I hold my rails and feel something jagged on the right side. The fiberglass on the rail is broken like a shard from a bone. I must get out.

     On my MB Too, I screw in the AM2 Futures setup to see if they work better than my Black Stix for these punchier HB waves. Truth is, today isn’t big enough to really make a difference. There’s the occasional four footer, but for the most part, the waves are three feet and playful.

     It was empty earlier, but by 0730, the place is packed with mostly longboarders. I still manage decent rides, getting some frontside carves and a decent rotation on a spilling white-wash section. Heat winner today is Bri, though. After said wave, she catches the second wave of the set, taking off next to the peak on a bomb right, four footer easy. Her popups aren’t lightening quick, but she’s getting much better, and if she’s getting up fast enough to ride these waves, then she can probably surf south Huntington where it’s a little bigger.

     She had even called out a wave that I had tried to take from her earlier. “I want it,” she said, and so I backed off. I admire her for that. She’s getting aggressive. She’s getting better.

     Before the wind gets stronger and makes things choppy, we had scored a decent window for surf. Bolsa likes the low tide right now, and when we had first shown up, it was clean. The waves were lining up all the way to shore, not big enough to barrel but for sure rippable. And to think, these are just the forerunners of the incoming swell. We’re expecting more size too. It’s gonna be a good weekend. 

CRUMBS, WED 02JUL2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri

Time: 0630-0800

Conditions: Overcast, light onshore, inconsistent, 1-3FT, empty.

     As surfers, we still make the effort to dawn patrol, regardless of a tiny forecast. There are times when the forecast is off, and we score. Times when other, less dedicated, people put their trust in the surf websites and sleep in, leaving an empty lineup for unexpectedly fun conditions.

     On this morning, Bri and I hope for the same. On top of the hill, we can see that there are lines coming in. On the sand, we really see that the lines are so small that most of them are breaking inside.

     Today, the forecast is right. Those who had said, “Fuck it,” and slept in made the right call. So there are a few familiar faces in the water along with a handful of surfers who I don’t know. Even most of the SUPPERS stayed in.

     There’s an older, local vet with even length black hair. His hair’s starting to go a little grey, and it’s undeniable in his goatee. I watch him surf, and he gets some decent gems, cranking out at least one finishing turn on each one.

     The current takes the small crowd north, while I stay in front of the tower. All my rides are gutless and bogging out on the inside. Bri catches everything, going mostly straight on her waves.

     It’s so bad out here, even Don K. leaves early. Ross shows up and leaves within an hour. Sitting alone in front of the tower, a rogue wave pops up, and I’m right on the shoulder. It’s walled and racy, but I pump down the line and manage two little check turns on the open face. Grey Goatee turns around after I dismount, looking my way. A couple surfers paddle over. I get another one. Just like that after a morning of nothing, I get back to back waves on a day of crumbs.

     But after those waves, the south wind picks up, and the surf goes even more inconsistent. Leaving the water, the rest of the surfers who stay are just bobbing in the lineup like buoys. I’ve been there before, waiting for that wave that never comes.

     I may have made the wrong call by even showing up. I could’ve been in my fartsack just waking up right now, but I heeded the call and had a look for myself. Even though it didn’t look great I still paddled out. And even in the flat, uncrowded surf, I managed to catch two waves. On a day like this, it was still worth it.