NEEDS WEST, TUE 09SEPT2014

Loc: Brookhurst

Crew: Randy

Time: 0700-0830

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, glassy, inconsistent.

     I take my brother to Brookhurst, his old stomping grounds, in hopes to catch some decent surf. I had texted my friend last night who said that it’s been fun, although I’ve been suspect of the conditions because I expect it to be walled.

     We watch the surf from the sand by the walk path, and the surf looks terrible. There’s a lot of chatter on the inside. The waves are coming in walled. I wonder if this was a good gamble or not. I have half the mind to return to Manhattan Beach, but we’ve made the trek out here. Might as well suit up. There are surfers out south by the river jetties. Even though the peaks are long and walled, there appear to be some shoulders, open faces that hold before they close.

     We suit up and paddle out in front of tower 3. It’s a long way to the lineup. At the main RJ peak, guys are pulling in. There’s a section that throws out, giving quick cover ups. Legit in my book. Like me, my bro hates crowds, so we sit further north in a gap between some surfers.

     On my Mini Driver, I feel I have the right board. Quad setup. A long line rolls in. Like I had described earlier, there’s kind of a shoulder at the end. I turn and paddle into it with ease. For some reason, my board feels sluggish, like the tide is already affecting the surf and making the wave soft. I try to top turn, and I almost lose balance. No momentum.

     At least we have it to ourselves. In my rashguard and trunks, I’m nice and warm. The surf looks better out here than it did from shore. The water’s ultra glassy. The east morning sun over the mountains gives the atmosphere a golden glow, its reflection blazing back off the water. If there were rights, you’d be blinded. Other than the shape, everything is perfect.

     More waves come. Still, it’s hard to get a good ride.

     I run into Pete, one of Pat’s friends (Pat’s Klaude’s roommate’s ex boyfriend). He’s surfing with a guy who rips. On these waves, he’s making every section, floaters, whatever it takes to get to the open face. Before the wave closes, at least a small bucket gets thrown out the back. That’s good surfing.

     More surfers come out. Since the shoulders are sprouting in the same spot, there’s too much competition now just to get a wave. I don’t feel like competing. Neither does Randy.

     After an hour and a half, we’re ready to go in. Nothing’s swinging wide towards us. I paddle further north away from everyone and sit next to two guys with fishes. Just then, a bomb swings north. I’m behind the peak. One of those dudes paddles towards me to get onto the shoulder. I paddle just to catch the top of the wave. I get into it, and the other guy backs out. The section builds in front of me. I’m using the quads to the best of my ability, pumping through critical high lines as the lips are curling. No time to turn. It’s all about distance. The wave starts to outrun me, and the whole wave bends. I slide down the face, trying to straighten out. The water underneath me is beginning to drain. I’m worried about digging a rail, but it lets me out. I ride the whitewash all the way in. Not a rippable wave, but a good way to end things given the conditions.

     I peel off my rashguard and wait for Randy. Getting a last wave is a bitch for him. He ends up catching a small one and paddling most of the way back. From there, it’s 50% off pho off of Brookhurst and the 405.

     The shape today wasn’t so good. It wasn’t classic HB. I think I’ve scored more good days at Bolsa than anywhere else in the HB area this whole summer. I haven’t seen classic HB in a while. Same story at San Onofre, too. I’m just looking forward to the winter. 

GROM SEASON, MON 08SEPT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Time: 0700-0945

Conditions: 2-4 FT, offshore, glassy, consistent, crowded.

     Lesson one that I had failed was on Friday. It was how shitty street parking is. Lesson two that I’ve failed on is how the groms take over my favorite break when school starts again.

     Reaching the sand, from 26^th Street to a tower over, north and south, are nothing but high school kids. Where are the locals? Off by 33^rd I see a few familiar heads. South towards Marine, waves break in the distance. The figures too small to make out.

     On the low-to-mid tide, a longboarder grom paddles into a dredging left. He’s late. He grabs rail as he hits the base of the wave, recovering by holding a midline on the its face. Water throws out over him. He’s not deep, but he gets head and shoulders cover up. Fucker. He’s just gotten barreled.

     His surf coaches applaud him from the beach. Hoots erupt in the lineup. I want one.

     Stubborn, I refuse to paddle out to the north or south end of this crowd, so I find a gap right in front of 26^th. The outcasted groms sit near me. I can tell that they’re outcasts. It doesn’t take a gynecologist. I was in high school once. They’re not part of the popular kids who are loud mouthed and taking all the good waves at the main peak. But what does that make me? I’m it, the only old fucker among them.

     I try to be cordial, ensuring that I’m not snaking any of the kids. If the locals don’t want to mix with them, then maybe I shouldn’t be out here.

     And yet, there are waves. I paddle further out to get away from everyone, but I place myself out of position, scratching out. When I do get good positioning on a left, a bodyboarder grom is on my outside. We’re almost elbow to elbow. I’m a little deep, but I can make it. However, the little shit just keeps going, regardless how I’ve been sitting my ass here for almost thirty minutes waiting for my first legit ride. I pull out. He catches it, a long one.

     Now . . . I’m pissed. I’d like to think of myself as a happy-go-lucky guy, but right now, I could fucking murder someone. I stare him down as he makes his way back out. He doesn’t come near. I really don’t want to be that guy, but really, no fucking respect. I look at the kids all around me. They glance but quickly look away. Angry mustache guy in the lineup. That’s me.

     Thank goodness that 0745 comes around. Time for school. The little fuckers leave. Yes. Lineup all to myself now, or just with a few heads.

     But I’m still in a shitty mood. Now that the tide’s coming up, the groms have gotten the best window. The surf is gonna get worse, but . . . I’m wrong.

     Mid-to-high tide is starting to work. The sun comes out. It’s full-fledged glassy. Waves are still breaking. Not sure if it’s residue from the south swells or windswell, but the surf is actually getting better. Approaching a six-foot high tide, waves are breaking with zero backwash.

     I don’t surf so well this morning, but that’s my fault. Out of nowhere, a four-foot set emerges on the horizon. I paddle out over the first one and get into position for the second. I turn and go, but the bottom sucks out so unexpectedly fast that I have to shove my board away and freefall. Fuck. Could have used my Mini Driver.

     A surfer on the inside, some guy I had talked to earlier, shakes his head and says, “That was the wave of the day.”

     Paddling back out, there’s still another big one coming. All of a sudden, the surf goes round. It’s a dumpster. I’m not proud of my next move, but I have to be honest. I ditch my board and dive underneath the wave. I guess it’s just been a while.

     The set had just about cleaned up the lineup. Everyone paddles back out and waits for the next. After fifteen minutes I turn to the guy next to me and say, “I think that was it!”

     Regardless, there are still waves. Even after 0900 with the tide close to topping out. The waves are softer but still doable. Without enough board, it’s hard to take advantage.

     Shan paddles out. I haven’t seen him in a while. Then I realize that I had last seen him here the day that my mom was found.

     So . . . it was a good day of surf. Unexpected in the South Bay, when it’s not supposed to be working.

THE BAD CALL, SUN 07SEPT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Bri, Tom Y.

Time: 0700-0930

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, light onshore, consistent, crowded.

     My mom’s memorial services were held yesterday. It was the fourth funeral that I’ve been to for a family member, and I gotta say that my mom’s service was the most beautiful one that I had ever been to. Aside from all the emotions and grieving, so many people showed up to show their love and support for my family. Aunts and uncles flew in. Other relatives from Vegas drove. My brother’s daughter that I haven’t seen since she was in diapers. There were a lot of people, and for the first time in years, I got to see and appreciate just how big my family is.

     I wasn’t in the mood for driving the following day after an emotionally charged Saturday, so Bri and I decided to just stay local. No rush, no fuss, no muss. We scored free parking as usual and walked down on 34^th Street. The wind was onshore, causing texture triangles on the water. Not good. We weren’t expecting anything. Just a day to get wet.

#

     We take a gander at 26^th Street once we reach the sand. It’s crowded. There are bodies being lifted as an onshore peak breaks, creating a fast rippable left. Even further south there are peaks.

     Since I’ve been out of the loop for a bit, I feel awkward just paddling right into the lineup, so I pick a gap just south of the tower. Bri hasn’t been out much either, so the current takes her north. When I reach the lineup, she’s half way to the next tower.

     Immediately, I get my first left. I’m on my Mini Driver, so my late take off is aided by my quad setup, sending me down the line to the open section. I get a check turn and kick out cleanly before it closes out. Feels good. More waves like that and I’ll be all right.

     A little later, I see Tom out in front of the brick house. We paddle towards each other and chat it up a bit. I let him know about the worst that’s been going on. He says he hasn’t paddled out in a long time.

     The current’s strong. A lot of the locals have drifted all the way by 33^rd Street. I fight the current and paddle just north of the 26^th Street Tower where it’s empty. I run into Orlando and Oscar. They both ask me how I’m doing and express their condolences.

     After catching a left, Gene, who’s a local vet, one of the 26^th Street Ohana, gives me props on the ride. Out in the lineup, he says that they’re gonna have a paddle out today for their friend Ed. I totally forgot. I had received the email about his friend’s passing. Apparently everyone’s friend, but I had never met Ed.

     “We’re gonna have a paddle out,” says Gene. “Jorge there knew Ed since they were little kids, didn’t you Jorge?” He points to the guy in front of him. He’s not in the mood for talking. I understand. I just lost my mom. They lost their friend. In Jorge’s case, a childhood friend.

     Tom and Bri make their way towards me. On the sand, all those who had drifted earlier are doing the carousel, walking on the sand to get back to the main peak. Now everyone’s back here sitting on top of each other, so I paddle back north towards the brick house again.

     My wave of the day is a right. Tom calls me into it. A local guy on the shoulder says, “Go for it. I only like to go left any way.”

     Instead of attacking the open section, I do a check turn and go further down the line, waiting to set myself up for a better bottom turn on the end section. When I do, I get a decent hack to finish the ride.

     Now most of the locals are back on the sand. There’s a memorial being held at the tower. Someone’s giving a speech.

     “Don’t you think we should go over there?” says Bri. “I kind of feel like shit. We are part of the 26^th Street Ohana.”

     I look over. I could go in. We both could. Catch the tail end of the speech. Show our support. Do the paddle out afterwards. And then I think about Jorge. He looked sad. He actually knew Ed. I didn’t. I just don’t feel that I have the right to be there, especially just having gone through a funeral yesterday. Everyone there was either close to us or had known my mom. I don’t want to be a face in the crowd that can’t feel the genuine loss. “I’m sure they’ll understand,” I tell Bri.

     Soon after, they all line up on the shore with their boards and hit the water. All the locals I know, together. I’m further south, so Tom and Bri are on the south side of the mass while I’m on the north. After a couple more waves, I see Bri on the beach, watching the circle that the friends-of-Ed form out by the buoy. Some are still struggling to make it out. One guy does a side stroke, dragging his board with him. Others are bitching about the current, getting pulled north. Each time someone passes me, I feel worse and worse. Should I have joined them on the sand? Should I just paddle out there now?

     Hoots and hollers come from the circle. Maybe I had made the wrong call and should have shown my respects anyway.

     I get out and catch up with Bri and say, “I was over there waiting for you.”

     She gazes out, unreleasing. “I was watching the paddle out.” She doesn’t look at me.

     We walk towards the shower and rinse off.

     She says, “Oscar paddled past me. He said, ‘Oh, there you are.’”

     I turn back around. The paddle out’s over. Everyone’s making his way back into the lineup for surf. Suddenly, I feel like shit. Maybe I was wrong.

     The whole drive back home and even later on, sitting in my apartment, Bri and I barely say a word to each other.