LOCAL SATURDAYS, SAT 20DEC2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 4 FT, high tide, walled, offshore, mooshy.

Board: 5’9 Motorboat Too

     Bri decides to surf this morning. She says that she hasn’t been surfing so much because it’s been big and also because I, her lifeline, haven’t been here. I’m stoked to dawn patrol it early on a Saturday when I’ll get to see all the locals.

     Walking past the metered lot, I already spot Orlando and his long Rastafarian hair as he’s bullshitting with some guys parked next to him.

     With this high-tide funk in the mornings, it’s another swampy situation today. The waves look weak and soft. Pretty lame. But for waves to still break through this tide says a lot for the swell energy. The sets come in lined up and walled but mooshy. The Marine Tower has the best shape, but it’s dominated by a bunch of Standup Paddlers.

     Bri and I choose a spot away from the crowd, just south of everyone. Right when we get to the lineup, I get a left. Paddling into waves on this board feels different with its short length and low rocker, but it turns much tighter. I bottom turn into a tight wrap-around cutback, but the wave fizzles out shortly after.

     Out back, Bri takes the second wave. She’s caught a little bit behind the section, and she decides to straighten out and dismount. She could have maybe held her line and made it to the open face, but I’m working on not being a dick so much. The old me would have said something, but . . . why push it? I just want her to have fun and not feel judged.

     The rest of my waves are too soft, and after each wave, Bri is on the one behind it. Her NSP funboard is the perfect surf craft for days like these. She even catches waves all the way inside, covering more distance in one wave than all my waves combined.

     Orlando spots us. He paddles over and asks how Japan was. I fill him in. He invites Bri and me to the 26^th Street Ohana camping trip in April. Of course, we accept.

     I also talk to Stocky Jon, Gene, and Jose.

     Pretty soon, the tide begins to shut everything down. Ironically, more surfers crowd our spot even though the surf is getting worse.

     Walking back to the car, Vietnam Mike stops us at the stairs with a metal container in hand. “You gotta try these,” he says. Inside are chocolate chip cookies. They’re really good. Bri’s stoked, too. What a way to end a session. It’s great being a local.

BACK TO THE SPOT, FRI 19DEC2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0945-1145

Conditions: 4 FT+, mid tide, walled, light onshore.

Crew: Klaude

Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver

     After our annual DRC Christmas Dinner last night, Dais, KK, and I make plans to meet at our local break at 0930 when the tide goes down a little.

     At 0915 I get a Vox from Klaude. He’s on the way. I’m still at home, closing up shop and heading to the garage. Despite Friday’s cluster fuck for parking, I score one of my favorite spots. I imagine KK’s already out, but he drives by and tries to bust a bitch to snag a spot right by me. Before he can turn his car around, some other guy takes his spot. Klaude flicks the guy off and continues his search.

     A couple minutes later, he whistles at me from the top of the hill. I’m already changed, so I warm up in the shade and watch the surf. It looks soft and walled. No shape. I squint it out and try to make out some corners, but even that’s hard.

     I walk to the top of the hill where Klaude is locking up his car. There’s a cone next to the corner fire hydrant. I’ve been standing for a while, so I sit on it. When I place my hand on the hydrant, something feels wet. I look at my palm. It’s covered in yellow paint, and it’s also all over the back of my wetsuit.

     I show Klaude. He laughs his ass off.

     “Now at least I’ll always be able to spot you,” he says.

     Truth is, I’m embarrassed, but I change the subject and walk a little faster down the hill to the surf.

     It’s a sunny offshore morning with the sun nice and high. Sunblock mandatory. I spot a few locals who I haven’t seen in a while. There’s Costco Kim with her trademark boonie hat. Kurt’s also out. Don K. The King. Miles.

     I shoot a good morning to the locals and wait for some waves. Even though the shape is walled, I’m lucky enough to pick off a couple corners. My first wave is a right, and I get a backhand single-shot snap before it closes out. I paddle into a racy left, pump hard and long down the face, and manage a check turn off of the lip. My third wave is another frontside left. Behind the shoulder, I pull in and get a little swirly swirl action, small closeout tube. Feels good, but I’m getting greedy. I paddle back to Klaude.

     Little by little, the dropping tide makes the waves dredge more. A light onshore picks up. The waves start sucking out. I pull into another left. The face stands up and yawns over me. A grom going over the shoulder watches my indecisive move, as I pull in and straighten back out real quick. I don’t get clobbered by the lip, but in the flats, there’s no clean escape. Like yesterday, I’m dealt with another awkward hold down. I scratch my way to the surface, praying that there isn’t a second wave coming.

     Fuck. Lung power. So underestimated. You’d think that holding your breath over consistent months of surfing doesn’t account for much, but it does. My lungs need to retrain.

     KK and I let the current take us north in front of the brick house. Here, a little sandbar is working, and some of the lefts actually have racy shape. I pull into a couple more closeout tubes. I’m super late on one to the point that I have to grab rail to keep from purling. I get that swirl perspective and get pinched deep. I wonder if I could hold on a little stronger or do more in the tube to make it out of those.

     The inside gets treacherous with the dropping tide. Klaude’s caught on an inside rip and gets dragged south, damn near all the way to the tower.

     When he makes it back out, the surf turns choppy. He calls the next one in.

     The sesh was a bit lackluster, but we’re glad to have paddled out. High tide and swampy in the morning, low tide and sucked out towards noon. Either way, I need to get consistent again.

RETURN OF THE DUCK, THU 18DEC2014

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach (Rosecrans)

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 4 FT+, offshore, high tide, swampy.

Crew: Russ, Gary

Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver

     Upon landing at LAX Tuesday morning, I had been stuck in Tuesday for over 24 hours, meaning that I had flew back into time 17 hours, so I arrived in L.A. 8 hours before I had technically took off . . . on the same day. Think about that for a minute.

     So I was tired as shit. Tuesday I didn’t do anything but give my penis some relief and take a few naps. Bri was happy to have me home, and she doted over me. I missed that doting.

     There was no way I was surfing the following morning. I still felt like shit. Plus it had rained. Plus, the forecasts had shown that the surf’s been huge. It’s hard to get back into it after not surfing for three weeks, especially if my first paddle out would be a bit harrowing, definitely colder from the last time. I was a vegetable for a day once more before paddling back out.

#

The Return of The Duck:

     The plan was to meet Gary at Rosecrans at first light, but of course I’m late. Gotta get back into the groove. I’m off. There’s a puddle of water in my garage from the rain. It’s dank. Everything feels moist. My neighbor parked his truck in there, so there’s barely any room to maneuver. I go through my list, check it twice, make sure I have all my gear, and drive off.

     After scoring free parking on Highland, I head down the hill to meet the fellas. Everything needs getting used to once more. The cold morning air, the oily sunblock on my face, the cool sidewalk underneath my feet. A chill hits the back of my neck from the offshore breeze. The sky’s a light blue with streaks of pink clouds. Could be sunset but it’s sunrise. My world’s turned since I’ve been gone.

     The shoreline isn’t very familiar either. The high-tide swamp climbs the sandbank, nearly touching the lifeguard tower. I do a hasty warm up and hit the water. It’s much colder than I remember. Upon duckdiving, I realize that I’ve forgotten my earplugs. In full submersion, I can taste the water. It tastes like an ashtray.

     Gary turns around and waves. I wave back. Once I see Russ, he looks at his watch and shakes his head.

     “I know,” I say.

     The high tide makes the waves roll through like finger tips, not enough exposed to push the surfers into the waves. Every once in a while, a rogue wave sprouts up and extends out of the water just enough for a good ride, but most of them are walled.

     On a good note, my shoulders have never felt fresher. Usually they’re sore from all the consistent paddling, but right now, no pain.

     I mostly catch lefts. My turns feel sluggish from my quad setup. From the lack of shape, I bottom turn and pull a couple check turns off the lip just to get some kind of rotation and movement. One left sends me pumping down the line. The shoulder wedges up in front of me, and instead of pulling in, I try to go around it and get clobbered by the lip. Even though it’s high tide and unintimidating, there’s a lot of energy in the water. When I get sucked under, I’m held there longer than expected. My lungs are starved for air. It’s not even a big day, but usually I’m much more comfortable in these situations. Panicked, I fight my way back to the top and gasp for air. I’m nauseas.

     I get back to the lineup and play it off like everything’s all right, but I’m a little shaken.

     Gary and Russ take the first two waves of a set. I’m out of position for the third, so I duckdive it and go further out.

     Russ returns and says, “Fuck, thought I had that one, but the offshore held me up.” He turns around. “My dad still out there?”

     Gary’s caught inside for about ten minutes. Paddling like crazy, he’s in a weird rip.

     After a couple more waves they both head out. I surf a little longer, hoping to end the session with a good wave, but as the tide gets higher, the surf gets more inconsistent.

     Changing back at my car, traffic swooshes by right next to me. My hot-water bottle provides some relief, but I’m chilly again at the advent of undonning my wetsuit. Been a while. Gonna have to get used to all this again.

DRC Christmas party that evening