DISTANCE, TUE 30SEPT2014

Minimal crowd in the early afternoon, still glassy with waves breaking through the high tide. Who says you have to travel far from home for vacation?

Loc: Churches

Crew: Randy

Time: 0800-1045

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, consistent, empty.

     On the way to Huntington Beach, a car pulls up next to me at a traffic light in Seal Beach. He’s rolling down his window. It’s still dark out, so I have to look closely to see who it is.

     “Matt!” says the driver.

     Ahhh. It’s Hideki.

     “North of the pier!” he yells before driving away.

     The pier. Randy and I hadn’t planned on surfing there.

     “You can go check him out and say hi,” he says.

     I debate. I see his car make a right at the pier parking lot, so I make a right as well.

     “His hair is long now,” says Randy.

     I explain how Hideki surfs consistently, how the pier is his spot, and that he’s usually at least five deep with his Filipino crew.

     We all step out and shoot the shit. I tell him we’re going to Brookhurst but that we’ll come back if it’s better here.

#

     The Brook. Randy’s wearing his long sleeve flannel. I’m shaking in my T-Shirt. Slightly overcast with gusty offshore wind, the ocean looks cold. There’s a bout of morning sickness on the inside. The peaks are sectiony and running away. Guys surf River Jetties, but the surf is disorganized.

     “What do you think?” I ask Randy. He’s quiet. I don’t blame him. We’re both thinking the same thing, but none of us wants to say it. I open up my Surfline App, but my internet is slow. “Let’s go back in the car.”

     The plan is to do AYCE sushi in Oceanside today after surf. It would be convenient to surf further south. The O-side cams look a little smaller than here. Trestles looks tiny, but I just can’t help the thought of that place. I’d love to change things up and show Randy my favorite spot. When I suggest it, there isn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice.

     There’s some distance involved in this drive, but it’s only 0730. We’ve got time. I expect traffic, but we don’t encounter any. We’re talking the whole way, and before I know it, I’m parking right in front of the Churches’ break.

     It’s not as small as the forecast had said. There are two-foot peaks. Then a set rolls in. Scattered peaks everywhere, some three feet. Only a handful of guys are out.

     The only bad thing today is that we don’t have the NSP. Bri’s surfed this morning, so I got the 6’10 Becker and, of course, the Zippi.

     I can’t help but be stoked paddling out, here. It’s that same feeling I had as a kid, inviting a friend over to play at my house for the first time, wanting to show him everything inside my house. Randy and I have never surfed here together. The sun is high without a cloud in the sky. The air, the smell, the way the water floats over the cobblestone reef, I’ve forgotten how much I love this place, and on a Tuesday! There’s barely anyone here.

     When we paddle out, the ocean goes flat. We’re at the top of Churches. An SUP guy and another longboarder sit at the top of the wave. Randy tries to go, but SUP guy gets it. He tries again. Longboarder guy gets it. Suddenly, I feel bad. Will Randy be able to get waves here without the NSP?

     Maybe he’s not aware that the small inside waves are fun, so I go on a campaign, catching every little wave that comes my way. Randy gets a few, but the waves are too soft and bog out.

     When the SUP guy leaves, Randy and I sit at the main peak. Just like that, lefts start coming in. They look small, but upon popping up, the section stretches out into an open-faced wall that holds shape. I pump down the line fast, setting myself up for frontside snaps. On the racy waves, I practice my floaters. Now I’m having a blast. The issue must be the boards.

     “Randy, I wanna see how the lefts feel on the Becker,” I say.

     He smirks and smiles. He knows what I’m up to. We switch. The Becker doesn’t feel as buoyant, but its length still makes paddling into waves easy. I pump down the line on the racy lefts again, feeling how the Becker is much snappier with its shortboard design. Meanwhile, Randy’s going for more waves now, but he seems even less stoked now.

     “I’m sliding out,” he says.

     “Which board would you rather ride?”

     “That one,” he says, motioning towards the Becker. “I’m just not used to this style of fins.”

     So there you have it. That’s me being a control freak, trying to control my brother’s fun.

     Only a few people are left. It’s 1000, and we have the spot to ourselves. Instead of worrying about Randy, I go to town on my Zippi. I get two frontside snaps on my left of the day, ending the ride with a small shuffle up to the nose of the board, and then walking it back. It just felt so fast and fluid. Highlight material for my mind.

     We’re out of the water at 1045. The campsites behind us are vacant. We change at the tables underneath the hot sun. Just like yesterday, there’s no wind.

     Now the next predicament is deciding on where to eat for sushi. There’s Hana Sushi in Oceanside that my brother hasn’t been to in years. It’s out of the way. There’s also Zenko in Mission Viejo. It would be on the way home. Being that he’ll be leaving tomorrow, I opt to change things up and head to O-side.

     “It’s about twenty miles,” I say.

     “You sure?”

     It’s a long drive, but again, we’re bullshitting the whole way. Next thing you know, we’re seated at the sushi bar, staring at cuts of unagi and hamachi. We eat for two hours.

     Back at San Onofre, we hit up Sonic and order two Sonic Blasts. Mediums, and they’re huge. So we chill out at Churches again, sitting at a picnic table in the shade, watching the waves breaking through the high tide. It’s still glassy with only a light breeze. I’m surprised that my brother finishes his milkshake before I do.

Randy, enjoying his first Sonic experience. To think he had wanted to order "the mini"!

     After dropping him off in HB to spend time with his son, I’m back home by 1730 without encountering much traffic.

     I had covered a great deal of distance today. So if time flies when you’re having fun, I guess you must fly over any distance when you’re having fun, too. 

GIRLPOWER, MON 29SEPT2014

Blue Crush of the South Bay

Loc: 32nd Street

Crew: Randy

Time: 0745-1015

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, peaky, consistent, chicks.

     I’m late. Work this weekend has me tired. I’m supposed to have picked up Randy by now. Groggy, I drive down to my garage and load up our gear. If it was just my gear, this would be faster, but I have to load my brother’s stuff, too. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, but today it’s painstaking.

     “You seem tired,” says Randy, when I pick him up.

     I yawn. I tell him about weekend duty, how I had slept on a cot. It sucked. It’s a morning that I could have easily slept in, but I’m on surf auto pilot.

     There should be parking for a Monday, but we’re late. Maybe the joggers, the Manhattan MILFS, the guys who do weird exercises in the park or on The Strand, those who are part of the early morning masses have already taken over.

     When I find free parking, Randy says, “Oh, you know where to look.”

     Funny how this is something that locals take for granted. Am I a local? I don’t know, but I sure as shit know where to look for free parking.

     Without expecting much swell, and since the forecast has everything at one-to-three feet anyway, we whip out the funboards, El Zippi and the NSP.

     Walking down 32^nd Street to get to the water, we see a lightly sprinkled lineup. 26^th has some heads, but even Rosecrans looks scarce to our north. Three chicks are longboarding, two SUP guys hover around them like flies on shit. Yeah. No surprise.

     However, it’s a pristine morning. No wind. No texture on the water. The ocean’s like sheet glass, and the peaks, barely at three feet, stick up and out of the water, well defined, like small hollow lines.

     Riding the Zippi is like cheating. It’s just too easy to get into waves on this thing. The water’s warm, so popping up in my wetsuit jacket and shorts, I’m flying down the face of a two-foot wave.

     Again, like days past, guys are on shortboards, the wrong boards, unable to rack up much of a wave count. Then Randy gets in the water and starts clowning me on the NSP. Not only is he getting backhand snaps on it, but I watch him step up the nose, hunker down, and pull into small barrels. He doesn’t make it out, but . . . no one here rides funboards like that. No one.

     The sausages leave the chicks, and they’re over at the next peak exchanging waves. One hoots the other into a wave, and she’s standing on the tail of her board, coasting on a sluggish one footer, yet yelling, “Woohooh!” They catch more waves. All morning long, “Woohooh!”

     One gets in my brother’s way, I hear her apologize in her high-pitch giddy voice. How could you get mad at girl power, especially on a two-foot day?

     A couple other chicks paddle out, longboard and scantily clad in tiny bikinis. I had no idea that 32^nd Street is the Blue Crush zone of the South Bay.

     Even with the rising tide, waves are still breaking but not standing up as much. Luckily, our boards keep us in the game.

     At 0945, my arms are tired. I look at Randy. He’s sitting twenty feet away from me. Something’s changed in him. He’s not the restless charger that he used to be, the guy who’d sneer at two-foot surf. Nah . . . he’s like Gandhi, sitting on the 6’8 NSP, pondering at the horizon. About what? I don’t know.

     “A couple more?” I say.

     He squints his eyes and twitches his head, the wet bunches of his hair pointy as a porcupine. “Really?” he says.

     Ha. And that’s when it hits me. He doesn’t wanna leave.

     We surf for another half hour, still trading off on waves. We both move around a lot. I guess that’s one minor aspect of how our surfing is similar; we don’t have to sit next to each other the whole time. Towards the end, we end up feet away. The surf turns inconsistent, so we call it.

     “It’s another nice day,” he says.

     The late-morning sun’s blazing over the beige sand, making it bright. The strand, the Manhattan homes, the pier, the leaves on the trees are still. Everything is in place, right where it belongs. 

THE FIRST NORTHWEST, FRI 26SEPT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Randy and Klaude

Time: 0700-1015

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, light onshore, north current, fast.

     Four boards . . . I bring four boards to go surfing: Motorboat Too, 6’10 Becker, Zippi, and Randy’s Tokoro. We walk to the strand for a surf check, and it’s definitely a little bit bigger, but the shape is questionable. The onshore wind knocks the waves down. The shoulders section off and closeout fast. I don’t know what board to ride, all I know is that I don’t want another day of sitting in the lineup with the wrong board not catching shit. We head back to the wagon. Motorboat Too and Becker. I grab them both.

     Pitching the MB Too into the sand, I paddle out on the Becker. Bri’s already out. She catches a closeout right. The inside is consistent, but I make it out unscathed. The current’s already sucked me south, but I have so much board that holding position is easy.

     My first wave is a right. With a quad setup to get down the line, I’m going too fast to set up for a turn and accidentally kick out. Fuck. Meanwhile, Bri catches another right. A guy sitting next to me rubbernecks it as he watches her go down the line. She dismounts in the impact zone but still confident and smiling without a worry. And why would she worry?

     I paddle into a right but don’t realize I’m too deep. I get into the wave late and purl hard, flinging my body forward. 6’10 is a lot of board to be sucked under with. Resurfacing, I take another one on the head. I struggle to get back onto my board and paddle out. The next wave rips the board from my grip. Fuck.

     Winded, I make it back out to the safe zone. Bri paddles up to me, talking, but I can’t quite understand. She’s saying something about having front row seats, probably to “The Eating Shit Show,” starring Donny Duckbutter.

     Again, Bri paddles into waves with ease. She’s almost smirking, but I can’t tell because she’s not looking right at me. It’s not until later that I realize that she looks that way because she’s surfing better than I am . . . and she knows it.

     She goes to work, and Klaude paddles out, immediately replacing her. He’s trunking it, no rashguard.

     “Going for it,” I say. 

     “I forgot my towel,” he says. “I’m gonna have to change later. Haven’t figured that one out yet.” He hoots at the next set on the horizon, four foot plus. The first wave’s walled. He goes on the second one.

     I catch a small left, pulling off two floaters and taking advantage of its stability. On the next wave, I get two backhand snaps. They feel good, a little sluggish but good.

     “That board’s too big for you,” says Klaude, as he paddles past.

     Fuckin’ A. As the tide fills in, the onshore wind dies out, and the peaks become a little cleaner. I head back in and swap out boards.

     Randy’s all over the place, first paddling south, then north, and then south again when he gets invaded by groms.

     Klaude leaves. I chance a set-wave right. Kurt, old local vet, hoots me into it. I get hung up on the top and drop in late. Some ripper kid who looks like a John John Florence knockoff is on the inside. I stick the landing, but the open face has left me behind. Ron Ron Florence gives me a look like, What are you doing? He’s right. I’m surfing like shit.

     The good thing is that my MB Too is so easy to duckdive. Even in the impact zone, I’m punching through waves with ease. I catch another right and get two sloppy backhand hacks. The waves go a little softer with the tide, but there’s still size. Decent conditions for my board. I try to set myself up for some power carves on my frontside, but I don’t stick any of them.

     On a right, I manage to bottom turn and get a late hack under the lip. “Late,” as in my timing was behind and the turn was forced, but it was a turn nonetheless. My wave of the day is a backhand hack that I get a 180 rotation on but kick out purposely because the wave is closing, kind of like a suicide hack where you can just go for it since there’s nowhere to go. I guess the next level of my surfing would be to actually follow through on those and land them.

     By 1000, the tide gets too high. I wave Randy in like I had done yesterday. It’s time to go.

     He says he was frustrated from the crowd following him everywhere he went. “But it was fun,” he says. “How’d you do on your Becker?”

     I downplay it a little. Truth is, I probably should have been on my Motorboat Too from the get go. My Mini Driver’s damaged. That would’ve been the perfect board at first light. “Better than yesterday,” I say. It’s a content ride home.