FRI 03OCT2014

Loc: El Porto (42^nd Street)

Crew: Rick, Bri

Time: 0645-0845

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, swampy, crowded.

     It’s been a while since I’ve done the hustle down 45^th Street into the Porto lot. Crossing the street, the pavement is cool underneath my feet. Purple hues spread out over the water, the sky a dark blue. Black dots already litter the lineup. The sand is well groomed, a blank canvas before the invasion of surf-stoked footprints. Bri’s waving me down as she walks down the steps from the lot. I wave back.

     The tide is much higher than yesterday, the surf much smaller. Backwashed lines break in wampy fashion, like the way water swishes when you’re carrying it in a bucket, trying not to spill. The wash catches Rick on a left, and he has an awkward wipeout. He flags me down and paddles back to 42^nd. He has to work hard against the current.

     “I almost didn’t want to paddle out,” says Bri.

     “I wouldn’t blame you,” I say, but . . . I don’t see the same gnarl here that 26^th Street had. We paddle out. Rosecrans is bigger. I see a guy pull in and make it out. It’s barreling there.

     I had put on my ear plugs to prepare for today’s beatings. A line rolls in. I turn and go, but my timing’s off, so I end up purling. I’m better than that.

     Again at Rosecrans, a guy’s going left on his backhand with a frothy cylinder right behind him. He pig dogs and places his arm in the wave’s face to dump some speed. He gets partial cover before straightening out to shore. I respect that. He’s comfortable, knows how to be ahead of the hollow section to avoid getting gobbled from being too deep. I’m not quite there yet.

     Rick goes right and gets two backhand snaps. He’s one of the few guys that have gotten a wave with an open face for turns.

     With better timing, I pull into some closeouts. The earplugs help, but I get some long hold downs. If another wave were about to break on me, I’d be fucked. I’m no Shane Dorian, that’s for sure.

     Bri’s the only girl out. Three other girls paddle out on Costco Foamies, but only one makes it out. She sits way outside not going for anything. Those three don’t count. Meanwhile, on the NSP, Bri has a hard time finding a quality wave, but she’s going for it. The guys around me watch her as she takes waves to shore. They haven’t caught shit yet, and here’s NSP girl clowning. That’s good shit.

     My wave of the day is, surprise surprise, a left. There’s an open face that I pump down, leading me into a section that’s standing up. I stick with my line, keep pumping, and then pull in. At least I get some barrel vantage for a second before it closes out on me.

     I think about how I need to be surfing better in hollow conditions, pumping in the barrel, and how this winter may mostly be like this, at least if it’s ground swell. No turns. I’m gonna have to get more mentally prepared to just draw a line and pull in.

     When Rick and Bri leave, the surf gets more inconsistent with the tide topping out. Yet, new faces emerge around me. Everyone’s on it. I catch a closeout in and head to the showers. A guy’s holding his longboard, teaching a chick who’s with him how to rinse a surfboard while he holds the shower button. “Now rinse you and your wetsuit off,” says Teacher.

     Chick in a wetsuit rinses off, keeping a hand on the button. I walk up and say, “Go ahead, I got it,” as I hold the button for her.

     She looks at me with a twisted grimace. “No, it’s okay. You go ahead,” she says.

     Motherfucker. What’s wrong with people that can’t accept genuine decency? I didn’t even have my pervert hat on. I would have done it for anyone here.

     I rinse off and head up to hill where I had scored free parking earlier. A lady pulls up and asks if I’m leaving. Her windows are closed. We can’t hear each other. I pull at the neckline of my wetsuit and slowly say the word, “Changing.” She drives away. I take my sweet as time, playing music, gazing out at the water. 

KNIFE TO A GUNFIGHT, THU 02OCT2014

I need bigger fins since I've lost my girlish figure.

Loc: Manhattan Beach (26^th Street)

Crew: Klaude

Time: 0715-00945

Conditions: 5 FT+, offshore, consistent, round.

     I’m on the sand with my Motorboat Too pitched, nose first, into the sand and my Zippifish at my feet. Don K. walks up to me with Davey, the local aerialist, and asks about the MB Too. “Those are the large fins?” he says.

     I acknowledge. Those are the AM2 Futures that Khang had let me borrow a while back, a reminder that I need to see if it’s cool that I still have them.

     Davey shoots me a shaka. They both walk a little south and paddle out away from the high school kids. I figure it’s crowded, so I opt to use the Zippi for the first part of the session in order to have an advantage over the crowd.

     When I paddle out by Davey and Don, Don catches a left. When he comes back, a left is coming. He motions for it, looks at me, and says, “Go!” You have to go when Don’s calling you into it.

     I scratch out, embarrassed. I want to make up for it, so I eye the next wave coming in. Don tries to go. I should back out, but he stops paddling. Now I really have to go. The wave has a tapered shoulder for promising shape. A guy hoots me from the inside, yelling, “Yeahhhhh!” As I’m popping up, the wave doubles in size. The bottom sucks out from under me. I’m hung up. The Zippi’s too fat, and I’m not good at surfing this monstrosity in punchy surf. I slide down to the base of the wave as the lip starts to curl, but my board just doesn’t bite into the line; I eat shit.

     I resurface with the Hooter still inside, saying something to me and smiling. Fuck. Embarrassed part two. I paddle back out. Don can’t even look at me. There goes my local status for the morning. Idiot! I catch a small one in and switch boards.

     Klaude’s on the shore warming up. The waves are getting even bigger. Guys are saying that throughout the lineup. These high school kids . . . they’re tearing it up. There’s a right in front of the brickhouse that actually has shape for turns. I watch the same groms, the same older dudes, not even the 26^th Street O.G.’s, getting good rides. They pull in, most not making it out, but some hooting as they do. Barrel.

     My timing’s off. There’s backwash making the drop more critical, too. I haven’t caught shit.

     Klaude and I manhug in the water. He’s going through the motions of life right now, and he looks kind of down, but I can still tell that there’s a fire in his eyes for today’s conditions. While I continue to struggle, Klaude’s going for just about everything. He sits with the main pack. I paddle away back in front of the tower.

     At Marine, I see a guy get barreled on a left, claiming it as he straightens out in the flats. He lets out a long howl like a wolf. I hear him from all the way over there.

     I’m human, so I’m jealous. I’m also frustrated. Could use more board today. Lost Mini Driver would have been nice. Round pin tail, quad fins, speed. It’s not a day for turns. Shan paddles out, too. Other surfers scramble around us, getting good rides. Every time I turn to see Klaude, he’s on the inside, just finishing a wave.

     Then something in me clicks. I have to catch something, anything; I can’t just sit here waveless.

     I paddle away from Shan and meet the line on the horizon. I turn and go, paddling into a closeout. The lip swirls over my head before I penetrate out the back. The next wave crashes right on top of me in the impact zone, but my MB Too is so small that I take minimum beatings.

     Commitment. I change my mindset. I know I’m going. Closeout or not. I meet the next peak. Being more aggressive, my positioning is much better. I slide down the face and draw a swooping line right into the hollow pocket. The lips swirls over my head again. My natural instinct is to bail, but I hold my line, which means that I freeze from inexperience. Crouched and paralyzed, I get shacked for three seconds. I can’t believe I’m in the tube. It doesn’t happen enough. I focus down at my board, my rail biting into vertical marbleized liquid, and then everything goes dark. You’d think obliteration would be bad, but I’m all right. Paddling back, I’m frothing. I shoot a wide grin at Shan, shaking my head. “I was in there,” I say.

     Now every barrel I see is pure entertainment. I want guys to make it out. I’m envious, but it makes me want one for myself even more. I go through the mental trials, tell myself that I’ve been to East Java and ate shit on slabs over sharp reef. I can handle this.

     Klaude gives me the signal that he’s going for one more. I shoot him the same signal back. It’s time to go.

     On the outside, a set wave approaches. I paddle out to meet it, but I’m too deep. The guys on the shoulder freeze up and don’t make a move for it. Down the line, surfers yell, “GO-O-O-O!” They’re probably yelling at the guys on the shoulder, not at me, but it might as well be me, as I’m the only one left who can get it. I don’t know how many good waves I’ve let get away and the regret I had felt afterwards. This is supposed to be my break.

     I turn and go. I expect to be too deep and get pitched, but I’m making the late drop straight into the barrel. The water starts throwing out over me as I set my rail. The rest of the section builds before me, but I’m tripped up, and I eat shit. Darkness.

     Embarrassed part three. I resurface. The guys around me are rubbernecking it to find out what happened to the Chino who had gone for that wave. I paddle up to Shan.

     “I almost had it,” I say.

     Davey paddles up to me and says, “If that part of the wave right in front of you wasn’t white, you would’ve made it. The rest of the wave opened up after that.”

     “I don’t even know what happened,” I say.

     He starts to paddle away, turns his head, and says, “That was sick, though.”

     “Thanks. I tried.”

     I should have caught my last wave in, but now I want another one just like that failed barrel. I have to redeem myself. Unfortunately, the surf gets a little smaller into the late morning, and it gets inconsistent. I try some backhand pigdogging, but the rights are even fast and more racy, at least in front of the tower.

    

Home

Back at my car, a guy’s double parked, waiting for me to leave. I change, pack up, and go. 

Kind of hard to be bummed with a view like this.

THE CHANGE, WED 01OCT2014

Loc: Huntington Beach (Brookhurst)

Crew: Randy

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, onshore, consistent, choppy.

     South wind pats our faces as we step out of the wagon. It’s onshore early. We walk out towards the beach for a look. This is supposed to be my brother’s last session here in a while. The patchy clouds mask the sun’s rays, keeping the atmosphere a dismal grey. An older guy is walking towards us. I rehearse my morning greeting in my mind, but the guy beats me to the bunch.

     “You guys checking it out?” he says, and after answering with a word, the guy starts talking about his hip surgery, his son who does airs and works for Rip Curl HB, and then he starts to look familiar.

     “Excuse me,” I say. “Is your name Michael?”

     “Yeah. Michael J.”

     I tell him that I surfed with him a long time ago during his surgery, and how he could only knee board at that time.

     He offers up his fist for a pound and says he’ll check the surf with us.

     The peaks are coming in more scattered, but the wind is making everything choppy.

     “You know,” says Michael J, “I was by Dog Beach yesterday around ten, and it was perfect. The wind changed, I paddled up to a pack, and I was ‘the guy!’”

     Randy and I decide to go for it. Michael J bids us farewell. An entourage of surfers parks next to us. One of them has dreads. They’re talking about a surf movie that they’re in.

     “Dude, can I borrow some wax?” asks Dreads.

     I think about how some guy at Jalama had given me a bar of wax in the lineup and how Klaude had just did the same for someone else at Trestles.

     “Sure,” I say, offering up my bar.

     He thanks me repeatedly.

     “It’s just wax,” I say.

     “Yeah, it’s just wax until you don’t have any.”

     The pros paddle out at the best peak, so Randy and I walk further south towards tower 3.

     My Motorboat Too feels so small after surfing the Zippi, but I can appreciate how duckdiving it is so much easier. We sit in a small gap between a string of surfers. We both get waves, but their faces have so much chop that the rides are more technical than enjoyable. The faces have steps in them, so I have to shift lines to get distance on them.

     The current’s not too bad, and there are waves, but I’m disappointed. This is my brother’s last sesh here for a while, and I wonder what nature is trying to tell us. Is this a message? Is this nature’s way of saying that we can’t expect a good session just because it’s his last day and that he should be staying instead to be here when the waves are good? I don’t know. But at 0900, the wind changes. The waves are still choppy, but they’ve cleaned up a little. I see my brother go for air attempts and rotations for finishing maneuvers. He’s throwing buckets out on the lefts. Meanwhile, I’m having a hard time, either scratching out or backing out at the last second because I’m too deep.

     “It’s really peaky right now,” says Randy. “You can get around them.”

     I take his advice and just go, wisely picking good lines to maximize my rides. Some of the waves are so racy that I lack control. I try an air but end up with extended legs and fins still in the water. Amateur. But I do get one good ear-biting forehand carve and a couple backhand snaps, but I still didn’t surf so well.

     Randy knows this spot. This used to be his home break, and he’s milking as much as he can out of it until next year.

     Afterwards, we head to IHOP for omelets and pancakes. We’re stuffed. I take him to do some last minute shopping, drop him off, and by 1945 I have him back at the airport.

     I hate to see him leave, but I know he has to go. He has business to tend to. I tell him that I’ve had so much fuckin’ fun with him and that I love him, and then I give him a hug. I’m gonna miss him.