 |
| Yeah, "gold' rating, but where's the shape? |
Loc:
Manhattan Beach, 28th Street
Time:
0645-0845
Conditions:
4-5 FT+, sunny, cold, walled, consistent
Board:
6’0 Lost Mini Driver, large quads
I’m early, parked on 27th Street.
Street cleaning doesn’t come in until 0900, so I’ve got time. It’s dark. The
air is cold. I step out to see how close I am to the curb and run back inside
the car. Offshores are strong. Windchill. Meanwhile, the high school surf team
is doing laps on the sand. Some of them have already hit the water. Their black
sleek bodies get picked up by the incoming waves. Out back, they lower once
more before the next one comes. I can think of so many reasons not to paddle
out. One, there’s no shape. Two, there’s no shape . . . at all. Three, it’s
cold. Four, my bed’s so nice and cozy and warm. Why put myself through this?
I step around and pop open the hatch, grab
my wetsuit, and put my left leg in. I look up again at the closeout in the
distance. There’s PV. Always shape there on a swell like this, but I’d be late
if I huffed it there. Doubt there’d be any parking left. And then there’s the
drive, the walk, the long paddle out. If I surf here, I might get a gem. Right
here, local. . .
Two guys are on foamies, getting clobbered
by the inside whitewash. Yet, their demeanors are playful, laughing at each
other with each whitewash onslaught, as if saying, “Oh my God!” or “Holy shit!”
They’re gone a minute later. But the conditions are so damn deceiving. A lull
sets in, the ocean an aquatic desert. Mother Ocean saying, “What? I didn’t do
shit.”
The young Asian dude, a fellow darkee like
me, is out there. I don’t know his name, but he’s in tight with the rippers. I’ve
never talked to him. He’s the only face I recognize.
My timing is impeccable, only having to
duckdive two soft rows of whitewash. Just like that, I’m in the lineup. Cool.
Too easy. The water’s cold. I look at the horizon, a blazing orange contour
line just above the rooftops to the east. I need to feel that sun on my face,
need warmth.
No surprise, every wave is walled. I paddle
further out to beat a couple waves, never shitting myself. With good
positioning, I’m out of harm’s way. I just have to be picky. I just have to be picky. . .
It’s
a pull-into-oblivion kind of day. Thank you, Klaude, for the SA large fins that
you let me borrow. I got those fuckers on today because, God willing, I’ll need
them if I have a chance in hell of making it out of one of these dredgers.
I scan for shape, any wall that looks like
it has some kind of shoulder on it, even if I have to squint to make it imaginary.
It’s a game. Eat the piece of shit that looks best. In the end, it’s still a
piece of shit.
My first glory wave is a left. Actually, I
have the mindset to only go left this morning. Nothing like a terrible wipeout
on your backhand. No, sir. I’ll wanna see the beatings coming on my forehand,
thank you very much. My drop-in is flawless. Speed down the face, watching the
base start to curl, bottom-turn pump, and pump again. I definitely feel more
drive with the large fins. I race down the face until I’m overwhelmed by the
curtain, but I surf the closeout the best I can, getting a quick slot, even
seeing the swirl shut down into a foamy cone from the inside. Resurfacing, I
get back to the lineup. Timing flawless once more.
My second wave is a little more sloppy. I
drop-in late. Still committed I stick the drop and pull up under the lip. I’m
way too deep. It’s not as good as my first ride, but I make it back to the
lineup unscathed.
“You were a bit low on that one,” says a
voice from behind. It’s my fellow darkman, the young ripper I’ve never talked
to before. He says his name is Mike. Young Mike.
I’m shivering and giddy that this dude is
actually conversing with me. Wow. I must’ve done something right. I take out an
earplug and tell him that if there were a little more shape, some of these
would be makeable.
“The rights are actually better,” he says
before paddling off.
I’m stoked. I got points. More XP points
with the local crowd. Feeling validated, I go for another wave, sticking
another poorly timed late drop. Out back, a closeout’s yawning out across my
whole vantage point. It’s not that big, maybe only five feet, but there’s just
so much water moving around. The air is fizzling around me like a pool of club
soda. I duckdive it and get jostled around. I resurface off of my board but
still holding it. I paddle hard, thinking, Big
scoops . . . Big scoops. I get close to the lineup, and another wave stands
up. I’m in the impact zone. Young Mike looks at me as he goes over the wave. XP
points lost.
#
Now I’m sitting on the sand, defeated. It’s
been a while since I’ve sat on The Throne of Shame. Other guys are coming in,
too, done for the day. Yet, the waves don’t even look that treacherous from
here. I can’t duckdive that?
I paddle out a second time and get worked
again. I had sprained my hand dirtbike riding about two weeks ago, so my grip’s
a little weak. Every time the board wants to wrench away, my wrist hurts. My
pussy hurts. I make it out.
The right thing to do is sit and wait. Be
picky again and catch my breath, but there’s a left coming, and it looks like
it has a shoulder.
Having just rereached the lineup I turn and
go. This time I slide down early. The shoulder starts to race away, and I’m pumping,
keeping up with it. Guys are going over the shoulder to the outside. I tuck a
little closer to the face and wait for it to throw out, but when the face bends
it happens so fucking quickly. The curtain falls right on top of me. I should
have pumped up a little higher. When I resurface and turn around, there’s
another wall coming in. I’m in the worst place possible.
#
I’m sitting on the sand for the second time
this morning. It’s humbling. One look at me, and it’s obvious. As they used to
say in the pineapple fields, “No can handle.” I could go home now, but I can’t
go out like that.
On the way back out, I suffer some more
beatings. Always hold onto your board, is the advice of many of my experienced
friends. Gary had told me this recently, even after rolling around and touching
bottom, he holds on. The one time I decide to “ditch,” I’m sucked so far under.
My lungs are weak. I struggle for air. The water pulls me in different
directions. I resurface, grab my board, and try to scamper towards the outside.
The water’s so porous from the foam that I’m sliding all over the place.
When I reach the outside, I settle into a
calm. I made it back out. I’m going for one more. Gotta make it count. If I’m
in the impact zone once more, I’m going home. But I’m here. Back. It’s a small victory.
The lefts stop coming in. More rights are
starting to show, but they’re still walled. When the eternal lines stretch from
north to south, I’m in position to beat them.
I take a couple more chances, pulling into
some of the best closeouts I can get that aren’t too consequential. After the
third one, I turn around and see the set. I’m out.
#
Sitting in my car about to drive off, I
watch the surf a little longer. I had thought that the swell might back off a little,
but there are still long walls rolling in. To my left, guys are waxing up their
boards in the parking lot. They’re probably thinking that they might get lucky
and catch a good one, just like I had.
