MISSED OUT, FRI 05SEPT2014

Loc: 45^th Street

Time: 0800-0945

Conditions: 3 FT+, glassy, high tide.

     I had sent the bat signal to KK the night before about surfing in the AM. “I’ll go if you go,” was his reply, meaning that we’d be surfing. First light. Unfortunately, I hit the snooze button one too many times. My eyes jolt open, noticing the light filtering through my apartment windows. I look at the clock. 0645. I check my phone. Klaude left me a vox at 0623, saying that he had just woke up. I don’t even reply.

     Knowing KK and the pressure we put on each other to live up to our commitments, I can imagine how he thought he was late. He probably imagined me in the water already, looking around for him. Oh the irony. I imagine him there, just paddling out.

     I scramble for my gear and head out the door. I’m just a little late. I head towards 26^th Street Manhattan Beach. Getting back into the surf groove, I forgot a major lesson. Parking sucks on Fridays. Street cleaning. The metered parking lots are already packed; people are even sitting in their cars, waiting for surfers to leave. Round and round, every little nook and cranny of a parking space that I know about is taken. I circle the streets for a half hour, finally giving up and scoring free parking on 45^th Street. I vox Klaude back, leaving him a defeated message of how I tried . . . I tried.

     Since the water was warm the last time I was out, I choose to trunk it with a rashguard. I’m on my Motorboat Too, hoping that there will be some occasional three footers.

     It’s about 0800. The first shift is already leaving, and only a very manageable crowd remains. The tide is high, but there are waves coming in. It’s a bit on the walled side, but easily three feet on the sets. When I paddle out, I notice how there’s a lot of water moving around on the inside. High tide.

     Right when I reach the lineup, a set wave approaches, a right. I turn and go, and the wave doubles in size when I pop up. I have speed on the drop, and there’s an open section before me, good enough for at least one big hack. Next thing I know, I’m bucked off of my board, and I’m thrown in front of it into the flats. It’s an awkward wipeout.

     When I paddle back out, a Costco guy says, “Hey, man! You actually got that.”

     “Yeah.” I paddle closer. “I don’t know what happened. I just . . . lost it.”

     “I thought you were gonna like . . . do a back twist or something.”

     Back twist? What the hell is he talking about? An unexpected surge of water pushes at my back, lifting me. That’s when I realize that the backwash had caught me on that wave.

     And for the rest of the session, I try. I try to get a good wave, but everything is walled or running away. Could have used my Mini Driver with the quad setup.

     But there is one wave, a small left. Probably only two feet. I get two lame turns on it before it fizzles out on the inside. And that’s it.

     I’m unfulfilled, walking back up the hill to my car. I haven’t scored good surf in a while. Checking my phone, Klaude hasn’t gotten back to me yet. It’s not until later that afternoon that he tells me how the surf there was pretty much the same but that our other friends, Khang and Dais, had paddled out with him. Damn. Haven’t seen those guys in a while. Missed out. 

PORTO THERAPY, THU 28AUG2014

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Gary, Jimmy B.

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2 FT+, glassy, low tide, sunny.

     Without being on the WHC text-message thread, I’d be completely out of the surf loop, but I’ve been able to see where Rick, Gary, and the rest of the homies have been surfing and how good they’ve been getting it. I read that Jimmy and Gary would be paddling out at Porto. I hadn’t paddled out with friends since my mom passed, so I thought it would be healthy to just stay local and see some familiar faces in the lineup.

#

     It’s funny how the faces at the Porto parking lot change day to day. There are always the usual suspects, but there are also those who pick up surfing during the summer only to disappear during the winter. Some are sporadic in their surfing, showing up hardcore after their Costco purchases, only to decommit once a week to once a month, and then retire their foamies to that corner in their apartment or their garages, sometimes Craigslist, never to surf again. Of course, if you’d ask them, they’d say they surf. But I’m not mad at them. In fact, it’s these habits that keep the lineup less crowded, so we should be thanking them.

     Yet, I pass the committed. Like Mark AKA Surfing Santa. He’s here. Tony. Looks like he’s driving a van now. Usually I show a shaka or two on the way to my parking spot but not today. I haven’t paid local dues lately. I feel like a tourist. Unfamiliar ground.

     All the way at the end, I spot Jimmy and Gary. When I pull into my spot, they look surprised. I shoot them a nod and stagger out of my wagon.

     Surf. Porto. I’ve missed it. Even though the surf is drained out, it’s surf that’s down the street. The best kind.

     “The tide’s about to start coming up,” says Gary, grinning underneath his goatee.

     Jimmy points out to a wave breaking. The rights are sectiony but the lefts have shoulders. Looks small, but I don’t care. “The water’s been warm,” he says. “I’d wear boardshorts, but I forgot them. Lucky I have a wetsuit in my car.”

     Since I showed up after them, they hit the sand first. I go through the changing ritual slowly—left leg, right leg, pull, make sure the sac’s nice and snug.

     Sand squishes between my toes as I make my way towards the shore. The morning smell of salt, cool air, and damp sand. I love it.

     I’m able to walk through the low tide before sliding onto my board. Clouds scatter the sky like white diarrhea in a toilet bowl, but once the sun sifts through, its beam is intense on my face. Wow. It’s barely seven in the morning, and it’s hot. I’m burning. Jimmy was right. Boardshorts.

     But the surf itself is tough. We all paddle into fast rides, ending just as fast as they begin. The best I can do is pump for some distance. Since the tide is low, there are some hollow sections. None of us are making them, but we pull in. Tiny-barrel practice. On my forehand, I pull in and grab rail, leaning so far forward that my body’s contorted just as parallel as the board, and, surprisingly, I get a cylindrical glimpse before it closes out.

     The surf doesn’t get better as hoped. It’s now that time, when the boys have to get their last waves, and that’s when Gary, AKA Balls Deep, gets one of the rare sets. It’s a low-tide dredger. He pulls into a three footer, and the lip chandeliers right over him for a full legit cover up. I hear a couple hoots further down the line. Eyes on Garr. The section runs away from him. He disappears but not before getting good distance in the tube. I’m telling you. These Venice vets. . .

     And Jimmy leaves, too. For the next half hour I go for the little closers, not expecting a good ride, but that’s fine with me.

     I leave the shore, this time with my feet sinking into the wet sand. There’s no wind, in front or behind me. I hit the Rosecrans shower, the water just as warm as the ocean. Dripping wet, I turn and face the ocean once more. Aside from the waves, everything else is perfect. I can see the pier, PV engulfed in a golden haze of light behind it. There are only a few people out. It’s a slow day at Porto, typical with the lethargic surf. Yet, there’s something therapeutic about being here. Feeling the water slide down my face and palms, I can’t hear a thing but the faint sound of waves crashing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better leaving the water, having caught nothing but small closeouts.

ESCAPE (double sesh), TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Churches to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: 4 FT+, walled, consistent, crowded.

     With my mom’s passing, things have been pretty hectic. Once all of the big items were moved out of my mom’s apartment, leaving only minor items and a cleaning job to do, my sisters and I decided to take a day to handle our own neglected errands. For me, it meant paddling out. With the biggest south swell to hit SoCal in years, I hoped to score. I imagined pristine conditions with scattered peaks everywhere, especially Middles. But . . . I also knew that it would be a gamble. The swell would be coming in south east, meaning that the shape could be walled. But what do I know? I’ve been wrong in forecasting wave quality this whole summer. It seemed like a gamble worth taking. Plus, I really wanted to paddle out and just be by myself to reflect on my mom.

     The night prior, I had packed everything in my car for a night’s stay, even a twin-size sleeping mattress that my mom had stashed away in her closet. I was ready, not to just car camp it but to do so comfortably.

     I left El Segundo when it was still dark out. All I had to do was get in the car and go. I had missed the feeling of hitting the freeway in the dark early-morning hours. Yet, I felt more alone that I ever had before. The idea that my mom wasn’t a phone call away anymore was still hard to accept. Whenever I wasn’t with her, I knew that she was always “there.” But now she wasn’t. When I thought about her, I pictured her the last time I had seen her, on a grocery errand. The quick way I had hugged her and said goodbye. The routine pitter-patter hug I would get back from her, and the urgency she had to hurry and put her groceries away so she could get on with her day. I’d see her again, I had thought, as always, for another grocery run when she would need it, a small fix around the house, maybe a screen door or her surround sound would act up. But that was the last time. 

#

     Exiting Basilone, I get a quick Glimpse of Lowers. Plenty of people are out. A wall swings in through Middles. Doesn’t look like there’s shape.

     When I get to Churches and park, the surf doesn’t look as big. Four-foot waves are coming in consistently, breaking best at the top of the wave, the main point. The waves appear to be sectiony, but they hold shape enough to gain distance and crank a couple turns on.

     So far I’m not sold on the surf, but I’m here. Conditions could get better. The swell supposed to peak tomorrow. It could be epic by the end of the day.

     I’m not in a rush to change, so I take my time. Sunblock, wetsuit, warm up. I paddle out at the bottom of Churches and sit with a few other stragglers, hoping something will swing wide. Usually I’d be antsy, but I just sit and gaze out. Mom. . . The waves are gonna have to come to me today.

     When the sets come, they come in huge walls a foot bigger than I had seen earlier. I paddle into my first right, but it runs away fast and sections off. My next two waves the same thing. Closer and closer, I get to the main peak. Sitting wide south of it, I watch a couple perfect rights roll in. There are good waves today, but only breaking best in the prime locations, and this morning it’s packed with longboarders.

     Instead of sitting with the pack, I paddle north of it just south of Mons Pubis. Middles looks like shit, but there is an E-Z UP there with a whole crew of longboarders. Everywhere that is breaking has heads, but I somehow manage.

     I snag a couple rights that pop out of nowhere. Thank goodness I have my quad setup. I draw a highline going right, making it past a spilling section. I bottom turn and get one solid backhand hack. It feels good, kicking out of the wave, paddling back. There are so many people and only a few are getting waves. I got one.

     But other than a few random rides, it’s hard to catch anything with shape. And now I’m here again, like so many times this summer, sitting and waiting for the good wave that never comes. After catching nothing but closeouts, I call the morning session. Fuck it. I’m gonna be here tomorrow anyway, so why push it right now, especially if the surf might improve.

    

The State:

     After drinking some really strong tea back at the car, I rummage through my cooler. My sisters and I had to clear out my mom’s fridge. One of the items I took was a pack of Fig Newtons. I had recognized the pack as being one of the items that my mom had bought when I took her grocery shopping. Sadly, out of the two rows of newtons, she had only eaten a third of one row. When we had gone through her apartment, it was like being a crime-scene detective. What were her last moments like? How much had she eaten from the groceries we got on the last run? There was a fresh pot of rice cooked that she had never even had a chance to dig into yet. Okra on the stove.

    Now I munch on the Fig Newtons. I’m not a fan, but today they are nourishing the hell out of me. Sitting in my car with the sun beating down on the white roof of my wagon, I’m reaching into the yellow wrapping, plucking out a newton. I wish my mom would have eaten more of them instead of leaving behind so much. I would’ve been happier to see maybe half of one row left, but there are so many. The groceries. She barely went through them before she passed. The abundance of newtons left. A reminder of how quickly her life had expired after I last saw her.

     I walk to Old Mans hoping that I’ll find Mecca—big lefts peeling at the northern most break into the military campgrounds. When I get there, it looks like windblown shit. It’s smaller and just as sectiony with little dribbly shoulders. But again, I’m here to get centered. Waves are just a consolation. I finish off my bearclaw donut and tea and then head back to the vehicle.

     The best part of the trip isn’t in the water. Thus far, it’s sitting in my chair, on the sand, under my beach umbrella. I fade in and out of a nap before falling into a sleep-like trance. My body is so relaxed that I should be sleeping, but my eyes are open and I’m fully conscious. It’s like I’m in a dream state but awake. Onshore wind kisses my face and keeps me cool. The umbrella keeps the sun off my skin, protected. In front of me, I can make out the waves above the sandline. Surfers ride the high-tide inside waves, pumping as far as they can before kicking out. I sit, frozen, like a stone on the sand, stalling, waiting for the late afternoon for the surf to get better.

#

NO ESCAPE, TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Middles to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 1530-2000

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, walled, consistent, ridiculously crowded.

     Churches looks like complete shit. To think I had cursed this morning’s conditions. Walls roll in like mini tsunamis, clearing surfers in their path.

     I paddle from Mons to Middles, catching myself a little too close to shore a couple of times, having to dart outside to duckdive the sets. Miraculously, a smaller wave, a left, comes my way, and . . . it has a tapered shoulder forming at the end. I can’t believe it. I paddle and pop up, and it stands up right away. I get to my feet just in time and set my rail to go down the line. It’s a Jalama-quality ride. First maneuver is a tight frontside cutback in the pocket. I redirect and pump twice before getting a wide arcing carve. I hit the last section, which is now a petered out two-foot shoulder, but I still hit it regardless. Three turns. Best wave of the day.

     I continue my paddle towards the top of Middles, wondering if I should have just stayed there to wait for another.

     At Middles, I’m around a small pack of surfers. They’re waiting. We’re all waiting for something with shape. Walls roll in. It’s okay. I feel as if I have an edge because, remember, today’s not completely about surfing. I’m here to reflect.

     I’m a statue on my surfboard, letting the closeouts pass, staring out at the horizon. Mom. She’s really not home. If I called, no one would pick up. Every wave I catch is a closeout.

     Over the horizon, the sun is finally getting low. Underneath it is Lowers, and, of course, it’s working. It’s the only place working, but, as you can imagine, it’s fucking crowded. My technique of sitting wide is what half of San Clemente is doing right now. But . . . I can rely on the sunset. The darkness. When the light starts to wane, people will leave. That’s when I can have my chance. That’s when I’ll score Lowers.

     I creep towards it, but we all know how this works. You stare and paddle towards Lowers long enough, and you’ll find yourself there. So now I’m just outside of the main peak. Waves are swinging wide, but they are so big that surfers who are sitting deep can get into them. The main take off is so congested. I watch three or four guys on the same wave.

     “Hey!” yells a guy going left. A grom is in front of him. They both eat shit.

     A high pitched voice replies, “What are you doing?! Get out of here!”

     So many waves I watch pass. But now the sun is setting. Its little crescent giving a bright-orange goodbye like a sad smile. Still, I wait it out. I have the edge, the edge of time. I can sit here forever. I don’t care. But . . . people aren’t leaving. It’s still crowded. I have no choice but to sit at the top of the wave. The wave . . . is getting bigger. The swell is finally filling in, a prequel to tomorrow’s swell of the decade.

     “Did you just yell at some kid?” says a surfer. He’s talking to Yeller, the guy who had the altercation with the grom earlier. “Was that you? I saw you two split a peak. You went right, he went left, and then you swung back around and went left.”

     Yeller paddles away. The guy follows.

     “Why don’t you go in and apologize to that kid?”

     Yeller shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He tries to paddle away, but the guy follows him where he goes.

     “No? You don’t wanna apologize to the kid?!”

     An outside set comes in, washing everyone up. Good. Now I’m at the top waiting for mine, but it doesn’t come. One by one, like an army of immortals, each surfer regains his spot in the lineup, and then it’s Suck City all over again.

     Now the lights at the nuclear boobs are on. The sky over Camp Pendleton is purple. Yet, motherfuckers, they’re still out here. I see the faces of desperation around me. Other cats who had hoped for their opportunities to shine, just like me, waiting for their one wave to make the Lowers sacrifice worth it. And it’s still crowded.

     When the next bomb rolls in, I’m sitting deep on the left. A guy on my inside tries to go, but I know he won’t make it. He can’t. This wave is too big, easily overhead, and he’s too deep. I pop up and go anyway but find myself sliding down a dark vertical face of water. The wipeout is violent. Even way outside, I touch bottom. Panicking, I kick as hard as I can to the surface, hoping that there isn’t another wave. When I reach air, the rest of the set comes in. I didn’t give respect to the ocean. With the swell coming in full force, the lineup goes from trying to score a good wave to just trying to make it out in one piece.

     I turn and go on an inside wave, but it’s so dark now that my timing is off. Late, I eat shit on a right. Through the tumbler once more. It’s either belly ride it to shore or paddle back out towards the dim horizon. The black dots of wetsuits are now faint. But . . . it can’t be for nothing. I’ve been out for four hours, and I’m not gonna end it with a cherry on top?

     I paddle back out. The looks of desperation now turn into looks of worry. The set takes too long. I paddle towards the middle of the wave, and then the bomb arrives. The exploding white wash is two storeys high. I point my nose to shore, and I’m engulfed in foam and pulled down under. Now further in, I hold onto my board on the next one. Who gives a shit about a Lowers’ wave? I’m out of there. I smile as I approach the cobblestones. Other surfers are doing their balance dance over the rocks towards the sand. I cant my board at an angle to slow myself down, but I’m going so fast that my speed barely dumps. The water in front of me starts sucking off of the rocks. What had looked like a lot of water is now suddenly drained. I lean on my right side to keep my board afloat above the rocks. My right arm and leg are hit by a barraged of blunt-edged rocks, like being kneed and elbowed by a Muay Thai Kickboxer. After thudding my way to shore, I check myself for wounds. My board’s fine. Other than a small cut underneath my fingernail, the only thing bruised is my ego.

#

     I’m back on the 405 North towards El Segundo. I couldn’t find it in me to sleep in my car. The surf sucked. If it sucks now, it’s gonna suck tomorrow, especially if it’s not holding size now, just imagine. . .

     I feel even more alone driving home in the evening darkness. It’s not just my mom. Since she passed, I’ve been with my sisters every day, clearing out her apartment. It’s too soon to be alone.

     I reach over for the package of Fig Newtons, scraping the ribbed plastic container as my fingers search for one, but all I find are crumbs.