WINTER CAMPOUT PT.1 (double), FRI 26DEC2014

Small and gorgeous



 

Loc: Middle Trestles

Time: 0730-1030

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, offshore, cold, semi consistent.

Board: 6’0 Zippifish

     Bri had wanted to get a cottage at San Onofre, but all of them were booked for the post-Christmas weekend. With my birthday coming up, I thought it would be fitting to check for beachside tent camping as well. Sure as shit, there was availability.

     With the surf forecast looking small, yet “fair,” I thought it would be a good idea to pull the trigger, especially with an oncoming flat spell on the horizon. I reserve the site and extend an open invite to the homies without expectations for waves or company.

#

     The forecast downgraded to a foot less in size. Sunday got downgraded from “fair” to “poor to fair.” Yet, I’m still positive about the whole trip. Out of the most important things on the checklist is our space heater, since SoCal has been hitting record-breaking lows.

     Upon reaching Churches, we see that the surf is small. I haven’t surfed here in a while, and sometimes three-to-four feet Trestles can still mean longboard conditions.

     Regardless, there are still lines coming in. Small peaks peel with nice right-hand shoulders. A large pack of longboarders are in the water, an indication that this place must’ve been going off the past week with the swell that’s now outgoing. A set rolls in at a solid three feet, shortboardable.

     With a pristine winter morning before us and not one cloud in the sky, Bri and I don’t hesitate to change and bask in the early morning sun with the rest of the sniveling jackals.

     The Zippifish should be more than enough board. Even though the surf is more consistent at South Churches, we opt for our favorite spot at the northern edge. Apparently, it’s a lot of surfers’ favorite spot because there’s a pack here as well.

     We sit wider than everyone else, on the fringes of Middle Trestles, and wait for waves to swing our way.

     It’s smaller here and more inconsistent. Two shortboarders share the peak with us. Within fifteen minutes they call it and leave. Now that we’re in prime position and faced with a dropping tide, better peaks start sprouting up. The rights are a little racy, but as usual, I pick off the lefts and wait for each one with motherly patience. My wave/left of the day stands up at four feet. I can already tell that it’s a classic cobble-stone wave with the way the shoulder lines up. Upon popping up, the volume and drive from the fish and its twin fins send me flying down the line. I top turn into a tight wrap, rebounding off the spilling lip. It feels good to get a performance turn on such a big board. I pump down the line and finish with a second turn, well eclipsed by the first one.

     Though as the session progresses, the surf here remains inconsistent. Meanwhile, another pack of surfers are selling Middles. Unridden peaks break and peel in the distance. Bri and I debate and finally begin our paddle towards Middles.

     Usually Middles is empty, but like South Churches, there is a pack sitting at the main peak here. Once again, it must have been good here lately. I haven’t seen Middles work in a while, but bigger and more consistent waves are coming. The waves are lining up so well that guys at the top are getting long ass rides all the way past Bri and I, who are sitting well wide to the south. A guy on a fish keeps taking wave after wave. Luckily, some peaks line up a little too walled and outrace most of the surfers on our inside, so Bri and I paddle in and still get some long quality rides. On my backhand, I crank out three backhand snaps, surfing the wave from top to bottom. Feels good to get some spray on this thing, especially since I usually end up going left on it.

     We could stay a little longer, but we’ve been out for a while. We’d like to see if we can do an early check in and grab something to eat.

#

WINTER CAMPOUT PT.2

Loc: Churches

Time: 1545-1645

Conditions: 2 FT+, light onshore, cold, consistent, low tide.

Board: 6’0 Zippifish

     The office doesn’t let us check in until 1300, so we go to Duke’s in San Clemente for brunch. Afterwards, we do some light shopping for camping supplies and check in. After setting up camp, Hideki’s the first of our guests to arrive. After him, Orlando and his Wife Jenny show up in the Volkswagen surf van. Lastly, J and Hayana arrive, my friends who I haven’t seen since we had camped together here over two years ago.

"I didn't come here not to surf."--Hideki

Orlando with his new van accessory.

     With the sun getting low and the air temp dropping, Bri, Hideki, and I suit up for the last session of the day. The tide’s so low that all the cobblestones are exposed. Barely anyone’s out, and the swell has already dropped a foot from this morning.

     I have a hard time getting into waves. Hideki, on his Channel Islands Average Joe, does too. However, Bri’s NSP surf craft is working perfectly, getting all the little waves and taking them all the way in to the rocks. Given the solid epoxy material that she’s riding, hitting the rocks isn’t a problem. I manage a few decent rides, but no turns like this morning. All I can do is draw a line, maybe pump, and get some distance before being forced to dismount from the shallowness.

     I’m pretty bummed that the surf has dropped this fast. With my party having missed the morning session, I worry that there won’t be any waves for tomorrow.

     Back at camp, Orlando’s already hitting it off with the neighbors in the next site over, drinking with them in his van and blasting some Bob Marley. The bonfire’s already started, and Jenny says that she’ll have some turkey burgers for everyone. I guess this is gonna be one of those trips where the company that you’re in outweighs the surfing conditions. So few were able to make it out, but I’m stoked to be here with the ones who did.

BLINDSIDED, WED 24DEC2014

Loc: El Porto (45^th)

Time: 0645-0845

Conditions: 4-6 FT+, mid tide, consistent, freak rogues.

Board: 5’9 Motorboat Too

     Given yesterday’s lackluster session, and having missed out on surfing with the WHC on Sunday, I made sure not to miss them for Christmas Eve. As much as I want to surf at my favorite local break, I have to put in some time with Rick, Gar, and the rest of their crew.

     Text threads had already been abused the night before about the plan to surf 45^th this morning. Before Bri and I even exit El Segundo, Rick already sends the text that he’s parked in the lower lot.

     The offshores are strong this morning. With a pre-0700 check-in time, the dawn’s still dark with a deathly chill. Winter is upon us, no doubt.

     With the morning tide finally more manageable, the waves aren’t as mooshy as they’ve been. In fact, they’re breaking a bit fast with the mid tide, but it only looks four-feet tops. Bri and I change while Rick and Dave T rush the sand. We catch Gary parking on the way out.

     The lot. . . I can’t speak enough about how I am not a local at Porto anymore. I’ve probably lost that card a couple of years ago. Some of the diehards I still recognize. Whiffle Boy sits next to the meter on the concrete wall, baseball cap on underneath the lamp light, watching the surf before he changes. The two Asian dudes who got into a fistfight early this year are here, too.

     The water’s pushing a little high up on the sandbank when Bri and I reach it. Dave and Rick are making their way out. The idea of a long paddle feels sketchy, especially since the waves are breaking a little bit bigger than they had looked from the lot.

     I give Bri a kiss, tell her to be careful, and dart towards the water. I make it to the lineup fast, only getting my hair wet on one duckdive before reaching the outside.

     Rick paddles into a four-foot left in front of 40^th. Already, he’s on a wave with good shape. Water gets thrown out the back from one of his turns, the offshore spraying it up even higher. Dave makes for the same take-off spot where Rick had got his.

     The both of us are frustrated. As the sky brightens from purple to pink, more cars are pulling into the lot. I paddle into a right, ditching the pig-dog attempt to penetrate out the back of the wall. Resurfacing, Dave catches a closeout left, doing the same.

     I check on Bri. She’s chatting it up with Rick just north of us in the lineup.

     Next wave, I pull into a left, but I’m late. Closeout barrel it is. If I had a chance to make it out, it doesn’t matter because Rick snakes me on the open face, or shall I say that he had better position regardless.

     The lineup’s more crowded. I take off too deep again eating shit on the face. Not sure what happened. The water just kind of bounced up or I had hit a chop, but I fall like a noob while some other guy takes off on the shoulder. Resurfacing, a rogue wave sprouts up in the distance. We’re all caught, but it’s a makeable wave, so I use some muscle to duckdive it.

     I check Bri again. She’s caught inside. The roguer has friends following behind it. Bri takes a beating. It takes a while, but she makes it back out.

     Bri’s not having an easy day. More walls stand up, bigger than the waves had been in the morning, and Bri constantly finds herself in the impact zone. On one, Dave and I hold our breaths as we watch and wait for her to resurface.

     On the next rogue wave, I duckdive, and the power of the wave just yanks the board out of my grip. Immediately after, I feel the tension release from my ankle. Broken leash.

     Now I’m that idiot who’s swimming in to shore. I’ve never appreciated how dangerous being in the impact zone can be without a board, but I’m quickly given a lesson when I’m pulled under from the whitewash. I’m so tired I’m sidestroking in. Somehow, I make it back to shore with speed. Some guy on the inside pushes my board towards me before I get out. I say thanks and head to the car for a replacement.

#

     The lineup’s fucking crowded now, like something you’d see in a movie. Camera guys on the shore. Bri’s with the main pack, scratching for the smaller in-between waves, but I know those won’t break. Only the bigger ones will if you’re sitting outside. I’m out for blood. I need to redeem myself, but little do I know that my ego’s about to get checked once more.

     Bri tries to go for one of those little ones again. I want to tell her it won’t break, but I need her own surf process to take place. She doesn’t need me nagging her. When I turn around and look towards the outside, there’s a wall standing up.

     “Outside,” I tell her, as I make a calm but purposeful paddle to beat the wave. Watching it get closer, I know I’m not gonna make it, but I try to time it so I’m not directly where the lip’s gonna fall. The wave looks big, but I convince myself that I can muscle through it, maybe get dragged back a little at worse.

     The wave breaks about ten yards in front of me. I duckdive the stampeding white wash and just get trampled underwater and sucked down below. It’s violent. Not what I had expected.

     You’re supposed to be calm in these situations. I try. I tread water with my arms and kick my legs to get to the surface, but the pressure in my earplugs keep pushing further into my head with a squeaking sound. I’m far from shore, but I reach for the sand with my foot and actually touch bottom. After pushing myself up, light starts to filter through my eyelids. Dark horror. The whole time I’m thinking, Please God don’t let there be another wave behind this.

     I reach the surface, air starved. I look for Bri. She pops up just a moment after me. If I’m hurting I know she is.

     “Are you okay?” I say.

     She looks at me and says, “I have no business being out here.”

     I look out the back. The next wave is just as big and menacing. The offshore wind makes white veins that ripple up the curling face.

     “I’m going back,” says Bri, as she turns her board around.

     I have the keys to the car, so I have to turn around, too. Truth is, I have every instinct to bail as well.

     The second beating’s not so bad. I get rolled and eventually catch a belly ride to shore. The incoming tide is already pushing up against the rocks. To my left, someone’s board’s crashing up on the rocks. Done deal, I’m thinking. With the damage done, I stumble for the clearing, but two guys on the rocks are yelling at me to grab the board. I do. When I reach the sand, they’re waving at some guy who’s struggling to swim back to shore. I hold his board for him and watch him get out. As he approaches, I notice cherry-red blood oozing from his mouth and dripping from his chin.

     “Thanks,” he says. He inspects his board and groans at the site of the smashed nose.

     The shoreline is littered with surfers. Whoever didn’t make that wave is now on the shore, waiting for the set to finish. Even Charlie, a local heavy, is getting out of the water. He turns to his buddy and says, “I’ve got the wrong board. That new swell is showing up and. . .”

     So it’s not just me. Even the guy who had handed me my leashless board is on the sand with me, debating on going back in.

#

     There are numerous reasons why we push ourselves, and I can name a few this morning. One, I have to paddle back out because my homies are out there, older Venice vets, and I can’t bitch out and just say something like, “It was too big.” If I don’t challenge myself, I don’t learn, and even though a line must be drawn somewhere between pushing myself and stupidity, I’m hoping that I’m using good judgment.

     Two, I haven’t caught one fucking good wave yet, and I can’t leave the surf without a good wave. Sometimes, one good wave, just one, can make the difference between a horrible session and a decent one. I know I just need a good ride to make this whole morning worth it.

     Back outside, I lose Gary. Not sure where he is. Dave and I cross paths a few times. Rick more than anyone else is a constant back-and-forther. This really is his spot.

     I have a chance at a right, but a bodyboarder on my inside gets it, even calls me off of it. Well, it was his wave, but I was hoping he’d back out. I usually don’t surf like this, but I’ve been having a bad morning, and I’m desperate at this point.

     And then there’s the fear. I keep looking out back, ensuring that I’m not drifting too close to the inside, waiting for that monster rogue wave to roll through again. Apprehensive to work the lineup, I stay in my spot.

     Tyler comes out in shorts and a rashguard. Might be a spring suit, but he’s on his longboard living up to his legendary status. An entourage watches him from the sand. He and Rick chat it up.

     I struggle. Struggling goes to hating myself, and then there’s the dark side.

     My last wave is an inside right. I expect it to close, but it reforms, holding shape for me to get two backhand snaps. It’s not good enough to reclaim the session.

     Emphatically defeated, I rinse my board in the shower. Bri’s on the sand talking to the photographer. Some chick with a bunch of stickers on her board talks with them, probably sponsored. I walk up like an unfriendly dick and demand my car key.

     Bri knows I’m frustrated, so she lets me stew in my shit while I change. Before pulling out of the lot, I watch the surf and see that it’s getting better. No more rogue waves. The higher tide is producing rippable head high inside waves. Out in front of the tanks, a right is barreling and holding shape. Either the surf has been like this the whole time and I suck, or the surf is just improving. I wouldn’t doubt the former being my case.

#

     Later on that day, and for the next days to follow, I tell everyone about this session, and they can’t believe it. Klaude had surfed Venice and said it was three-feet tops. Orlando will say that he had surfed 26^th Street and that it wasn’t big at all. It just goes back to what I had said earlier. El Porto. I’m not a local here anymore. If I was, I would’ve known.

THE SWAMPS, TUE 23DEC2014

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach (26^th Street)
Time: 0700-0900
Conditions: 2-3 FT, high tide, inconsistent, mooshy.
Board: 5’9 Motorboat Too

     Looking back, I can’t remember much of this session. I know I had heard that Monday had been fun, so I was hoping that Tuesday would deliver.

     Bri and I started off the session just south of the 26^th Street Tower, where we evaded the main crowd. Even though most of the locals here are cool, I didn’t want to have to paddle battle it with anyone, especially if there was an empty gap somewhere else in the lineup. From what I can remember, Bri did much better than I did. Frustrated, I paddled further south to get away from as many people as possible. Random lefts would sprout up, but either I was too deep or just out of position to get any of them. Even though I did get some waves, none are memorable. It was a lackluster session that lowered expectations for the next days to come.