WE WERE KOOKS, FRI 06FEB2015

 

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street

Time: 0700-0900        

Crew: Russ and Garr

Conditions: 3 FT+, racy, crowded

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     I’m at Porto again because I have Gary’s Pill board that I need to return to him. Also, after seeing how swampy the surf was yesterday, I expect Porto to be the only place with enough size.

     I tell Garr and Russ that 42^nd sucked yesterday and that 45^th, and the tanks just north of it, were breaking the best. Gary paddles out to 45^th to do some battle while Russ and I do 42^nd.

     This is against the intel that I already have, but here I am again, after my bitch-bitch-bitch-moan-and-groan session from yesterday. I’m already approaching this morning as a wasted session. I’m not gonna catch shit. I accept it, and if I catch anything decent it will be a fucking surprise.

     It’s so crowded at 45^th. Russ and I watch Gary. He waits for guys who are too deep on the right to pull out before he paddles for them himself. As much as 45^th looks doable, it’s getting more and more crowded by the minute.

     Russ and I work with the scraps. He paddles into some racy closeouts, resurfacing with a frown and shaking his head.

     Since I’m already resolved to not catching shit, I just start paddling for everything and pulling in. Surprisingly, I’m actually having fun on the closeout lefts, even getting a little barrel perspective before the pinch.

     Somehow, I make a judgment call and turn-and-go on a small peak. Once it hits the sandbar it doubles up and turns into an open-face right. Having been surf starved, I unleash the best power hacks that I can on my backhand, completing two solid turns before the wave fizzles out. Russ acknowledges the ride when I get back. I don’t know how I got that lucky.

     Russ is trying to get lucky, too, but it’s not really happening. Gary’s back with us now, having given up the battle against the main pack.

     By the end of the session, I leave with three decent waves under my belt. Russ and Gar are pulling out of the parking lot. I wave at them before I reach the showers, feeling pretty content about the morning.

     Two guys are showering off with me. One of their wetsuits is ripped at the thigh, exposing a bleeding fin slice. I look at Bleeder’s board. It’s a 7’0 thruster, severely discolored from the sun, and has duct tape all over it. Even their wetsuits look second hand. I wonder how long they’ve been surfing, and then I think about myself back in my kook days.

     Fuck I was so kookish, and I had thought that I already “belonged,” bonified and labeled, in the surfing community, even with a fucking fun board NSP.

     I’ve been there before. These kids are all right, so long as they progress and don’t regress.

     Back at my car, they walk up to a FUCKED UP Buick. I mean, it’s beat to shit. Craigslist status, probably bought for $500. I can overhear them while I’m changing.

     “Dude,” says Bleeder. “You done with your towel?”

     “Almost,” says his friend.

     “Okay, let me know when you’re done.”

     I look over. They’re both sharing the same towel.

LOWERS OF THE SOUTH BAY, THU 05FEB2015

Enter the Fog

 

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street

Time: 0700-0900        

Conditions: 3 FT+, foggy, mooshy, racy

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     Long story short, I can’t see shit. I’m at Porto because there’s a high school contest at 26^th Street. I can only wonder how they’re running a contest with zero visibility.

     The Porto lot is only a quarter full, surprise, surprise. Makes sense because the fog is so dense that I can barely see the shore. Walking up to the water line, a few other surfers approach and begin their warmups.

     The inside is swampy with small mooshburgers. When I make it to what seems like the lineup, I turn around and have no idea where I am. If there’s a current, I’m gonna be pulled down the beach somewhere.

     The waves are of shit quality, fat and racy. I do catch a left right away, pump to make it past a couple of sections, and get a weak frontside turn.

     Little by little, the lineup gets more crowded. Guys are in the water, asking each other if they know where they are.

     Now every wave is either too racy or a fucking wall. Once the fog burns off a little, I see that the fucking place is PACKED for as far as the fog will let me see. I mean, black wetsuits littering the lineup as far as Rosecrans. I now see that I’ve drifted towards 42^nd.

 

Not Lowers. Po-Wers:

     Meanwhile, 45^th is working like a fucking machine. It’s pretty impressive. Just south of it at 42^nd, it’s just walls, but 45^th is A-framing. Even with the high tide, it’s producing soft rippable peaks.

     Too crowded for me of course, so I suffer. Stubbornly, I stick to 42^nd, waiting for the “good one” to come. When they do, I’m out positioned each time. Just too many people. Twice, I have to back out on decent lefts.

     Quota unmet, I walk out of the water in frustration, pausing on the sand to watch guys rip 45^th. I mean, they are killing it. Cutback after cutback all the way to shore. I’m jealous, wishing I could’ve caught some waves like those. 45^th is breaking better than any other spot at Porto, and it’s the most packed. Reminds me of another spot I know about.

SHOWING UP, WED 04FEB2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0900        

Conditions: 4-5 FT, crowded enough, semi walled

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     After not having surfed my local break for about five days, it’s time for me to make an appearance to maintain my “local pass.” Of course, the high schoolers are out in full force, taking up the main peak. The other surfers, who don’t want to deal with the groms, have paddled out slightly north in front of the brick house. When I get to the shore, I opt to paddle out south of the tower, towards Marine, into no-man’s land, since it looks walled and inconsistent there.

     Even though I had seen some lefts breaking here earlier, mostly rights are coming through. The sets are walled and a little dumpy, at the limit of my comfort threshold. Even though I get pounded in the impact zone a couple of times, I manage to hold onto my board, no matter how jostled I get beneath the surface.

 

Etiquette:

     This skinny older guy in a blue wetsuit is sitting outside. He paddles for a right. I paddle for it, too, as I watch him going for it. He drops in, so I pull out. Three strokes later, I look back to see that he had kicked out. Okay, no problem, I’m thinking. The second wave of the set is approaching, and of course, we are both paddling outside for it. What does Skinny Blue do? He paddles towards my inside and goes for this wave. I pull out again, saying, “Fuckin’ Greedy!” as he blows by me. Fuck. I can’t tell you how annoying this is. Reader, I’m sure you’ve been there before.

     The third wave of the set is a little smaller, but I catch it. It lines up nicely all the way to shore and peels with an open face. With aggression, I let out all my frustrations on my backhand snaps. Since I got the quads on, I get that extra grip at the top of the turn, getting that solid power arc and pausing at the accentuation mark, Michele Bourez style. Three turns. I’m not so mad anymore.

 

Luck:

     I get corralled in by two shortboarders and a longboarder, some guy who’s decided to wear trunks today. Either he’s hardcore or an idiot. Either way, his balls are bigger than mine if he can handle this cold water without a wetsuit.

     Since these guys have taken over my spot, I paddle north to get away from them back to no-man’s land. Just then, a right pops up, and Boardshorts is in perfect position for it on the shoulder. I dart for the shoulder as fast as I can and end up taking off a little behind the peak. It’s a critical late drop, but I make it, and get three turns.

     Now I’m sitting south of those three guys, having just caught the right, and, fuckin’ A, a left pops up right in front of me. Fuck it. With one of the shortboarders looking right at me from the shoulder, I pop up at the peak again and take the left. Dang, I guess I’m the one who’s being greedy.

 

Fuckin’ Stocky John. . .:

     So I see Stocky John in the lineup. I haven’t seen him all morning. I ask him how the surf was yesterday. He said that it was fun and a little bit smaller. Fuck. I had skipped the last two days because of the fat morning tide, expecting it to be too swampy.

     We both paddle north, and a heaving right comes rolling in. I mean, wave of the day status, big and open-face rippable. I’m going for it. So is Stocky John, but he’s way too fucking deep. I’m just about to drop in, and we both have eye contact, staring at each other with eyes wide. He pops up. Just as I pull out, I see him get obliterated by the lip on the bottom turn.

     You see, I’m anal about etiquette. In this case, maybe a little too nice. I hate getting burned by people, so if anyone is on my inside going for a wave, I just pull out. I try to avoid, at all costs, ruining the section for someone or getting in someone’s way. However, since me and Stocky John know each other, I expect that we’d have the proper etiquette for each other, like, “Dude, I’m too deep. GO!” But he had gone anyway, knowing that he was way too far behind and that I was in a better spot.

     I don’t want to give him a hard time about it, but I do want to say something, at least a, “What happened?” Am I being a dick?

     Waiting for him, I look back at the shore, and see that he’s leaving, after having been out for barely a half hour.

#

     Back at the car, I give Klaude a Vox, letting him know what the conditions are like. I haven’t surfed with him in a while. It’s tax season, so he’s been really busy. I also haven’t surfed with my other DRC homies in a while. Dais, Khang moved to the East Coast, and Cheryl doesn’t even surf anymore. I know one day life is gonna get busy for me, and I won’t be able to be a surf bum anymore, but until then, I’m glad that I can show up at my local spot as much as I can.