Loc:
Trestles, Middles & Lowers
Time:
0745-1115
Conditions:
3-4 FT+, sunny, warm, offshore, consistent
Board:
Motorboat Too
With some business to tend to at Camp
Pendleton, and a sushi night with the boys in Mission Viejo, it only makes
sense to head to Trestles for the whole day. Also with a juicy swell still on
tap, I’m doubtful that the local beach breaks will have any shape.
Even though I leave at 0545, I hit bumper
to bumper traffic in Huntington. It’s nerve wracking. I’m tired from staying up
late on the PS4, it’s dark out so I still feel like sleeping, and the drive is
already about an hour without the traffic.
Once I enter the campground, I stop at Old
Mans for a look, and the waves are small and walled. Fuck. I head over to
Churches not sure what to expect. When I park, the scene just takes my breath
away. Long walls are coming in from the top of the wave, but the rights are
peeling at lower Churches. There are only six guys out, all longboarders, and
they’re trading off on rides. The set’s four-to-five feet easy. Looks like I
won’t need my fish this morning. Suiting up takes a while because I can’t take
my eyes off the ocean. In the distance, I can see the distant breaks at San
Onofre much better, and it looks like it’s pumping there too. I guess the
northern most break that I had looked at wasn’t working as good.
Once I’m suited up, I walk the shoreline. I
could paddle out here and mix it up with the loggers, but I don’t want to deal
with any jockeying this morning. About three more guys have paddled out. It’ll
probably be a fuckfest soon, so I push it further north.
Upper Churches (or Mons Pubis) is kind of
working but not as good as I’ve surfed it before. It might be because of the
WNW direction. Most of the waves are coming in lined up, no lefts just
right-hand shoulders at the end of them. A Middles gamble might be the call.
Middles. . . I paddle out in front of a
rock formation that I had named The Battle Position. Since then, it’s lost its
luster, looking more like a moundish ruin.
The water’s cold. I have to do a little
cobblestone boogie but avoid getting cut. On my way out, some long rights start
breaking. I’m not even at the lineup yet, but I can’t help but to turn-and-go
on the inside waves. When I catch them, they race away. Too lined. I finally
calm myself and paddle all the way out.
I linger just wide of the main pack. A
surfer rips the right at Lowers, but the wave looks fat. Surprisingly, there
are only a few people there. Instead of packs of surfers, everyone is spread
out in a buckshot spread along the Middles-Lowers border.
I do my usual technique of sitting wide to
catch unmolested waves, but I can’t get more than single turns. They still feel
good, but guys at the top of the wave are getting longer rides.
Little by little, I inch my way into the
action. A guy on a Costco foamie is fucking killing it. I mean, he has to shift
his weight and torque his hips hard on each turn. Keeping that back foot on the
tail, he’s able to whip that monstrosity around. Maybe not the prettiest turns
but he’s pulling them off, showing off his knowledge of proper surf mechanics.
He gets off the wave, smiles, and nods his head at me.
“You killing it on that Costco,” I say.
“Dude!” he says. “The waves are so
predictable today.” He’s gleaming with stoke. I need to get like that too.
I start getting better waves. No, it’s not
classic Trestles, like how it can be on a good south-west swell, peaky and
scattered, but every other set has shape. My how I’ve missed these Trestles
waves. I’m getting away with fucking murder, paddling in so late with the lip
spilling on my back. I’m doubtful at first with how fast I’m slung down the
face, but I pop up and wind up for a snap. The face is so steep and rampy, yet
never barreling, that the tail of my board is just doing these carving hooks on
every turn. I mean, I’m not even snapping the lip. I’m doing these full hooks
where I just pause at the end of the accentuated motion, redirect the nose, and
wind up once more. I get four turns on my best wave. Four. Fuck it’s been a
while.
Even though the lefts are racy, I pick
those off too just long enough for a single maneuver. Here I practice my
laybacks. Ahh! What a morning . . . the lefts. Fuck my ass, it’s like, yeah . .
. I’m really in the training stages of my laybacks. I just can’t ride out of
them. On one, I try to pick a steep part of the face and just go for it. Like,
I just throw my whole body into it Clayback style, but I blow it so fucking
badly. Literally, I just backflop on my deck and wipe out lying on my board.
Mechanics. . . On the next wave, I consciously spring up out of the bottom
turn, torso, extended, and climb the face with speed. Reaching back with my
inside arm, I lean backwards as board does a solid arc. It feels good. Too bad
I don’t know how to follow through to get my board back under my feet and ride
out of it.
It’s a little discouraging. It just comes
to show how long the learning curve is in surfing. I can only wonder how many
times I’ll have to keep blowing it before I can pull it off.
After that left, I paddle back out. I look
at the beach, and I’m already at the next set of portapotties. I’m at Lowers.
Lowers. . . The infamous Lowers. As I’ve
called it before, the biggest lie in surfing. Yeah, it’s an epic spot if you
can actually get a fucking wave here, yet there are only three guys on it. For
some reason, the swell direction isn’t making it classic. It’s actually smaller
here. However, if you’ve read any of my past Lowers sessions, you’ll know that
I rarely catch it empty. Fuck it. It’s “LOWERS.” How can I not sit here?
It’s breaking uncharacteristically softer
than usual, but I still milk the lefts and rights the best I can. I get good
opening turns but the shoulders moosh out soon after. With everyone spread out
the same, no one really invades the spot.
I spend the next couple of hours going back
and forth, crossing that invisible line between Lowers and Middles. Some guys
are reluctant to sit at the top of the wave where it’s breaking best, so I even
sit at the bottom of the wave to give them as much priority as possible.
When I look at my watch again, it’s 1045.
Three fucking hours have gone by. Yet, I’m energetic. A crew of groms show up
on their bicycles, boards in hand. I figure it’s a good time to grab some
lunch.
#
Loc:
Churches, Trestles--Middles & Lowers
Time:
1445-1700
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, light onshore, cool.
Board:
6’0 Kainalu Fish, twin fin
You see, me and the boys are power eaters .
. . that’s right. We kill buffets and anything all you can eat. We don’t fuck
with places with time limits. Nah. We do two hours minimum. It’s usually
Sebastian, Tim, and me. We need a fourth seed so badly, but every candidate
we’ve had can’t hang. It takes passion, a love of food and a certain respect
for the deliciousness translated through each and every bite to sit down at the
table with us. So tonight’s AYCE sushi night. During these occasions, we
usually starve ourselves until it’s go time. When I say starve, I don’t
literally mean starve. Maybe some light snacky poos throughout the day, but
that’s it.
I paddle out at North Churches with the
fish this time. I figure since the swell’s backed off, why not make the evening
session a fun one with a wave magnet of a board. The transition, though, is
awkward. After having been on the 5’9 Motorboat Too, this board feels too big. The
sensation is different popping up. It just feels slower, yet once I’m on my
feet with, the board is just so fast down the line. I struggle to turn it. It
just wants to go in one direction as fast as possible. I walk the nose and eat
shit. My amateur hotdogging is hella rusty since the last couple of swells have
been brutal.
The guys who I’m surfing next to are a bit
aggressive, so I paddle all the way to Middles.
At 1530, something happens. I forgot to
mention that I had only eaten four tangerines the whole day. That and coffee from
my mug and water. I had felt good into the afternoon, but now my fucking
stomach hurts. The thought of white tuna, salmon, and yellow tail just makes my
stomach hurt even more. Gawd, I haven’t been this hungry since that seven hour
Jalama session in August.
I’m weak. I start surfing like shit. I
could leave the water right now, but I’m stubborn. My thighs are still aching
from snowboarding, the rest of my body more so from the gym yesterday and
session number one this morning.
Lowers is breaking a little more classic
now. Not crowded, but there are more heads there. I site wide south of it. It’s
not as consistent as it was this morning. I’m more patient than I’ve ever been
before, willing to let waves roll by, and every time a wave comes I’m hardpressed
to surf it well. It’s like pussy being thrown at you when you don’t want it
because you’re in a serious relationship. Because of my patience, I’m there in
the right spot every time a good one comes. Perfect right-hand peelers come
through. My feet placement’s off, throwing off-balance snaps on my backhand.
Tired, I just walk to the nose and crouch to get distance thinking: spicy tuna
handroll, unagi, albacore, mackerel, spicy tuna handroll.
I catch a closeout in but it’s still too
early, so I walk back to upper Churches where I’ll be closer to my car. Each
wave is draining on my body. Delts on fire. I’m past burning calories. Burning
muscle.
I’m back at my car and fully changed by
1730. I call the boys and beg them to meet me at Zenko Sushi as early as they
possibly can. “I’m starving,” I say. “I’m about to eat my hand.”
When they arrive at 1830, I’m already
sitting down at our table, first round of sushi on the way. With bloodshot
eyes, white Vertra still stuck to my face, and sunburnt lips, I go into AYCE
autopilot.
A true samurai can hold up his sword and
wait for the moment to deliver a fatal strike, even though an equal blow is
about to be dealt to him as well. As hungry as I am, I focus on the white slab
of fish, pick it up with my chopsticks, and dip it into the soy sauce. Raw and
buttery, I chew it slowly, never having tasted anything so good in my life.
