THE FISHER KING, MON 22SEPT2014

Loc: El Porto

Crew: Bri

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, consistent w/shape.

     Since there’s a line to enter the lot, I bust a bitch and head back to Highland Avenue to look for free parking. You’d think that the Manhattan Beach meter patrol would have opened the gate by 0600, but think again.

     After scoring free parking on Rosecrans, I grab the blue Zippifish and head towards the beach. The sky is still dark with purple hues emerging east over the horizon. The few scattered clouds are edged in dark pink. The sidewalk is sticky under my feet, the film from gum, dirt, and oil. There’s something about Rosecrans, the sidewalk and the gunky pavement that just spells “filth.”

     But dawn patrols can be worth the wake. Stepping over the bike path is like stepping into unmarked territory, the dividing line between those who are blessed with the stoke of surfing and those who will never know it. There aren’t even any bikers out yet. Onshore wind kisses my forehead, a cool morning, but I’m still ready to trunk it.

     Only three heads are out in front of 42^nd, the parking lot barely a quarter full. Spotting Bri, I head towards her. The sand is soft and cold, a precursor for the winter ahead. I warm up hastily and make my paddle out. She doesn’t see me at first until she’s paddling for a wave. It’s barely three feet out, but the waves are consistent, and the onshore wind is making them a little rampy. When the peaks break, they line up and stretch out, but a big board is good, enough rail and volume to get down the line. It’s one of those days when your choice of equipment is spot on, no regrets, no wish for more or less board; you have enough.

     One of the 42^nd Street locals sits on his shortboard in his red wetsuit. Usually he’s on top of the waves here, going on any one he pleases, but today he’s scratching out. Not enough board. He turns his head when Bri and I go for waves. When we’re done, he looks away. He has that anti-stoke shun, and I know it too well myself: when everyone else around you is scoring. But we’re not being greedy. He’s just on the wrong board.

     When Bri leaves for work, the tide fills in a little bit more. The sun comes out, already blazing even though it’s just over the horizon. Suddenly, my choice in wearing a wetsuit jacket is a bad one. I catch one in, pull it off, and paddle back out.

     The second shift is just in time to catch the glassy window when the wind dies. The surf had looked terrible when I first showed up. Surfline didn’t do much for advertisement either, but I should thank them. They kept the crowds low, a perfect day to sleep in, so they thought. But the peaks are consistent, cleaner, and lining up much better than earlier. And even though I’m glad that the lineup’s empty, I do my best to sell the surf to those in the parking lot, paddling into the smallest waves, catching a lot of short rides, playing with the deck of the board up to the nose, falling on backwards rides.

     Most of the second shifters are on the wrong boards, too. I pass up the first wave of a set to a surfer on my inside. The second one’s even better. Everything’s lining up just right for this session.

     My wave of the day is a random three footer. The peak stands up as it breaks and walls up a little. I get up fast high on the line and pump down it for speed. A longboarder’s on the shoulder, but he kicks out when he sees me coming. Even though the fish is fat, I push hard on my back foot and force a carving arc, redirecting down the line to finish off the wave. 

     I still get more rides, even blowing a layback snap attempt. I don’t ride out of it, but it’s fun just to get that motion of twisting your body and breaking a big board like that loose.

     After a wave, I bob on the inside next to my board. It’s 0830. I’ve been out for two hours and caught more waves than I had expected. My departure’s not planned, but I know I should go. No need to push it. I’ve had enough. The session couldn’t have gone any better. Sometimes it’s hard to leave the surf on a good note, so I leave with my stokometer redlined.

     Thinking back to my best wave, my only regret is that I didn’t continue the frontside wrap into a cutback and rebound off of the lip. I shortchange some of my turns like this. It’s more to work on. And that layback, one day I hope to pull that off clean. If I’ll be able to do it on a fish I’ll be able to do it on anything shorter.

     I’m glad that this wasn’t a session where I’m straining for a good wave, sometimes stubbornly waiting an extra hour for the wave that never comes, but now I can leave. I change. I move on with my day. Without an errand done yet, I still feel like I’ve accomplished so much. 

RECESSION, SUN 21SEPT2014

Loc: El Porto

Crew: Bri, Dave T., Gary, Rick

Time: 0730-0915

Conditions: 1- 3 FT, glassy, overcast, moosh.

    

     “It was walled,” says Dave, after asking him how the last swell was at Trestles. “Once you popped up, there was like nowhere to go.”

     I had felt guilty about missing last week’s swell down south. I made the call not to go because everything in my surf senses told me it would be walled. O-Side camera looked like shit. Gary said Carlsbad was walled. Cassady said HB was wonky. Skunk avoided. Good call. But on this morning, looking out over Porto, the surf has dropped off dramatically. The later hightide being a nonfactor since hightide today is higher. Lame. Yet, it’s crowded. Surprise? No. Not for here. There are a couple SUP guys, plenty of longboarders, and maybe less shortboarders than yesterday.

     After yesterday’s epiphany about my useless boards, I bring the Zippifish, a board that’s definitely too big for me but a board that can get me waves on a tiny day like this.

     We paddle out in front of the 40^th Street Tower, but I have to make my rounds and find Rick, who’s been out at 45^th for a half hour already. Before I leave, I watch Gary on his Lost RV, a groveler. Even on these longboard waves, he’s getting down the line rides. With a soft face, he can’t pull gouging turns, but he’s still surfing top to bottom the best that he can. Dave’s on his standard short, and he has to sit way inside. Bri’s fine, as usual. She rules in days like these.

     My first two waves are dismal rides, mooshing out on the shoulders not long after popping up, so off to find Ricky I go.

     So many people out. Over the horizon, occasional three footers approach the lineup like long fat rolls under a blanket. Good waves for today but so many takers.

     Rick’s at 45^th, longboard, brand new Hurley wetsuit with the double band around the thigh. Dave had his on, too. I forego a lot of waves to chat. It’s just not a ripper kind of day. It’s like Malibu at Porto, crowdwise.

     When Rick leaves, Bri and I sit at 42^nd. I get dropped in on a couple of times, but I’m easy. I’m in someone’s way paddling back out. I apologize, and he’s easy, a reminder that I should practice on my own tolerance.

     My best wave is a left. I’m behind the section, but I do a foam climb, easy on the Zippi, stick the landing, and walk the nose before the wave closes out. Even though I didn’t ride out of the wave, the timing just felt right, right after the foam climb and shuffling to the front of the nose, holding the line before the closeout. Lately, I haven’t had much to feel good about in my surfing, and it’s nice to have a little moment like this.

     Some familiar Porto locals are out here on shortboards, somehow getting into the mooshy waves. There was a time when I wanted some kind of local celeb status, just to be nodded at and regarded as “good.” Eh . . . that’s not important anymore. Simply put, I just need to catch as many waves as possible. Gotta bring it back to the days of just having fun, regardless of who’s ripping around me. The little shuffle that I did on the nose of the fish, more moments like that. The sensation, fun on the face of a wave. If I can consistently surf like that, it doesn’t matter if people say “good wave” or “he’s good.” If I’m stoked on a wave, isn’t that good surfing in itself?

SLUMP, SAT 20SEPT2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach (26^th)

Crew: Randy & Klaude

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 2-3 FT, light onshore, overcast, consistent, fast.

     Since my favorite shortboard is damaged, I take my Bali board, the 6’3 JS. I haven’t had a good session with it since I had last consistently ridden in during the winter swell of 2012. The last time I rode it was at HB last spring.

     With a garage full of dusty boards, it’s nice to put old equipment to use. Even though the surf is expected to be smaller today, I figure a little extra board might come in handy if the conditions are still walled.

     When Randy and I reach the sand, we see that the surf has come down a bit, but the shape is still a little walled. The brick house seems to have consistent peaks, so we paddle out there.

     It’s an overcast morning with a hint of early winter, an appetizer atmosphere. The air’s a little cooler, but I still chance it with a wetsuit jacket and trunks.

     “I’m looking for a redemption session,” says Randy, as he motions towards the same peak where he had broken his Tokoro at yesterday. On a smaller Tokoro today, he’ll be getting redailed in, too.

     The water’s warm as it creeps up to my belly button when I walk out. Upon my first duckdive, I’m acclimated. The water’s not so cold. It doesn’t take long before I get my first wave, a left, but the tide’s been high in the mornings, and pumping down the line on the 6’3 potato chip feels so different from my other boards. I set up for a top turn and almost fall backwards from the lack of momentum.

     Some waves have shape, but others are racy and closed out, at least for me. At 26^th Street, I already see the local heavies owning the main peak. One of the older longboarders gets hooted into a walled left, but his board has enough volume and length to keep him in front of the section. Behind him, a three-foot cylinder forms. More hoots erupt from the inside. He lowers his stance and puts his hand in the face to stall. No complete coverup but just being on that wave alone deserves props.

     Motivated, I try to pull in. Every wave closes out on me. Randy’s super patient, even sliding off of his board in the midst of the morning surf swarm.

     Kai, another local around my level, paddles up to me and says that he saw my brother get a barrel. Later, I see Kai paddle into a right, backhand. He’s covered immediately from the drop, pigdogging. Partial cover but cover enough.

     Out of frustration, I start paddling into everything, pulling into everything, and . . . nothing.

     Klaude paddles over, and we do a manhug in the lineup. I follow him over to the main peak, but it’s so damn crowded.

     “Use your local card,” he says.

     Orlando and Jose say wassup, shouting towards me over the various heads in the lineup. Feeling claustrophobic, I head back towards Randy.

     My JS isn’t working for me. I watch other guys on their short but fatter boards, popping up with ease and flying down the line. Carves, spray, sometimes two turns. How? As Gary once said to me, “It’s about the Indian not the arrow.” I know that something’s wrong with me, but something might be wrong with my arrow, too. I miss my Mini Driver. Plenty of volume. I’m a little heavier now, getting closer to 175, so I feel like I’m sinking my Motorboat when I’m on it. My JS isn’t jiving with me right now either. I can’t believe I had taken this board to Bali, but I was riding Bali-quality waves. Even on my best Cali sessions with this board, they were at Trestles on solid swells.

     Other than one sloppy backhand snap, I don’t get any decent rides. My last week of surfing hasn’t been good, save for Churches, and that was a soft two-to-three feet, fish and funboard conditions.

     I put the boards away after dropping my brother off. Looking at them all stacked together, my damaged Mini Driver off to the side, I realize that none of my boards are made for my height, weight, and level. The Patterson, the two Tokoros from my brother, they are made for someone who weighs 160 max. The JS has length, but maybe that board was better for me back then and not now. My Motorboat Too feels too small. Maybe these boards would be good in great surf conditions but not so much for everyday use.

     “Three boards is all you need,” my brother had told me when he first entered my garage a couple of weeks ago. “One for good days, one for average days, and a groveler, even the NSP would work.” He explained how Cali waves aren’t perfect everyday, and that’s why having something short and fat with more volume is good for surfing here. Unless you live in Hawaii or Indo or somewhere with good surf every week, then it makes no sense to ride a high performance board in slop unless you’re a pro.

     It may be time to revert a little and take a step back. Order a board meant for someone who’s even a little heavier than me, something that I can just simply catch a lot of waves on but is still somewhat maneuverable. I know this. I should have known this, but now I’ll have to learn it all over again.

     I think I understand now, how my friends go through so many boards. I think it’s time that I get me another one.