ENCORE, MON 09FEB2015

 

Loc: Churches

Time: 0800-0930        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-6 FT, consistent.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, quad setup

     If you thought we were tired yesterday evening, we’re sure as shit near a coma this morning. I snooze through the 0500 wake up. Like that was gonna happen. I finally get out of bed at 0700. My upper back is so sore from paddling. I fill up the water jugs and try to wake Bri up. She pulls me back into bed, and we don’t end up leaving until 0745.

     The surf is still going off, but we’re so drained. Really, I mean we’ve already scored. Do we have to paddle out again? Can’t we just get all snuggly in the cabin before our check out at 1100?

     The surf’s just a tad smaller than yesterday. No gnarly current and not as many cleanup sets, so guys are really able to hold their positions. Even though the Monday crowd is thinner, there are still enough people to cause a battle.

     I turn to Bri and say, “I’m pretty content. I don’t to need to fight over waves right now.” So we don’t. We actually approach the session with a mellow attitude. Still, I’m able to rob some rights. With the waves less critical, I can go a little harder on the turns. Paddling back out, I see Bri on a right. She’s behind a section, and she needs to find a way around it or lose the wave. She makes two fists, holds them up at shoulder level, and pumps with her whole body. But you know what? It works. She makes it past the section. I watch her awkwardly cutback on her forehand, flailing her arms from almost falling backwards. Hey, at least she understands the concept of turning. Until my dying day, I’ll always say that she’s progressed must faster than I did.

 

The straw that broke the donkey’s back:

 

     After Bri gets snaked by some old fucker in a blue hat, she paddles even further north to beat the crowd. And wouldn’t you know? She starts catching waves. All to herself. But not for long. She’s changed the firing order, and now everyone is paddling more north now to sit near her. It creates some disorganization. Some guys paddle all the way to Middles. Most people are now out of position for the main right at the top of the wave, but then there are these lefts.

     For the first time this trip, I’m surfing the other side of the main peak and going frontside. The lefts are a bit unruly and even racier than the rights, but they’re still holding shape.

     Now I’m really tested. It’s been a while since I’ve caught a critical rippable left with size. I got my frontside wraps down pretty decent right now, rebounding off the whitewash, riding out of it crouching, and pumping down the line for more. But the face is so vertical. I do some frontside arcs, holding the turn until the tail releases, but the rounded pin and quad setup has so much traction that it’s hard to get that crisp accentuation when I really want it. I mean, I really have to draw a wide arc. That’s why I need another good standard shortboard with a squash tail.

     I guess that’s kind of weird. I think on my forehand, at Trestles, I like the looseness that a thruster setup gives me, but on my backhand, I like the extra grip that I get from quads. The idea of asymmetrical fins makes more sense now.

     Of course I do not practice any layback attempts. The waves are just too performance oriented for me to even attempt one. What I mean is, I just don’t want an awkward wipeout.

     Then it happens. Fuck. I have so much speed on one left, that in an attempt to force a tail release on the carve, I blow the fins, slide out, and fall backwards. It happens with so much speed that my upper back and shoulders hit the water first, and I whiplash my fucking neck. To add insult to injury, I get scooped up and body slammed by the wave. Forgivable my ass. . .

     Afterwards, it hurts just to turn my head, but you know what? Eh, I’m still so fucking stoked. I surf through the pain. We’re done at 0930 anyway. Time to go back to the cabin, dust off the rest of them chili dogs, and head back to El Segundo.

     After checking out, we stop off and watch the surf for a little while. The wind’s picked up into a strong sideshore. Waves are still breaking, and the lineup’s even more crowded now with the third shift. This is where I’m supposed to tell you that we suit up again because we’re surfers, because we’re not here to bullshit and waste any time, but I can’t tell you that.

     We stare out at the ocean reflecting on the last two days and all the waves we caught, having the beach cottage, and just . . . how everything worked out.

     We hit the road early and get back to El Segundo at a decent time, still buzzed from the last three sessions of stoke. Sometimes you don’t have to paddle out for every session. If you know you’ve won, there’s nothing wrong with calling it.

TOP OF THE WAVE (double sesh), SUN 08FEB2015

This picture was actually taken the following morning, but I had to throw it in just so you can get an idea of how good it was.

 

Loc: Churches

Time: 0930-1230        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-7 FT, consistent, crowded, current, windy

Board: Lost Mini Driver, thruster setup

     I’ve struggled with trying to make my blogs shorter, so here it goes. . .

     I’m paddling back to the top of the wave, reflecting on times past. Rick sitting at the main peak at 45^th Street, waiving me over towards him, saying, “Sit over here, Matt.” My brother sitting on top of everyone at Canggu, Bali, not verbally telling me to sit at the top, but giving me that hard look and waving me over with his dark hand. Easier said than done at times, but I can’t help but smile thinking about these guys and the times that they’ve given me that advice because this morning . . . it’s working.

     I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Churches packed with longboarders and ended up passing on surfing here. I’ve watched perfect hundred-yard peeling rights and walked further up the beach where it’s less crowded because the quality sucks. Today the swell is so big and so consistent that snagging one of these long rides is actually possible.

 

The Good:

     This might be a dick move, but I’m pulling that card today. After losing my penis at HB yesterday, I have a lot to prove right now. I go to the top, the main peak, at Churches. I sit deeper than everyone else, even the longboarders. How am I getting away with this? The current. People stop paddling, not realizing that they’re being dragged south to the second point. I feign this knowledge and drift with them, sliding into perfect position. But the crowd isn’t stupid. The second I paddle, everyone else does, too, and then the great surf migration begins. I must hold out as long as possible.

     Man . . . I’ve always said that Trestles is a forgiving wave. Since I’m deep, I’m paddling into the sets with the lips breaking on my back and neck. I should be blowing these drop ins, but my Mini Driver has so much meat on it that I slide down straight, regather myself, and cut to the top of the shoulder to slide down again. Guys are on the shoulder about to drop in, but they back off.

     I’ve been switching between thruster and quad setups, and my thrusters feel really fluid. My backhand snaps aren’t really “snappy.” Instead, I feel fluid through the turn. The strategy is to flow with the momentum that I have coming out of the turn, more swinging than stinging.  

     The bombs drop me off in front of the Churches campsites in the midst of the masses sitting near the bottom of the wave.

 

The Bad:

     Some of the waves fizzle out a little early, leaving me right in the middle of the rows of stampeding whitewash. I think about fear and respect. I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t fear some of the massive round closeouts that HB and Porto can dish out, especially if they are breaking right on top of you. But even though Trestles isn’t a round wave, you still have to respect it.

     The waves aren’t killers, but it’s a fucking workout just to get back to the top. Row upon row of angry one-story high foam just pummels me. When the sets start coming in, they break even further out, so no matter how far I’ve progressed, the challenge seems never ending.

     I stop paddling at an angle and just go straight out to beat the waves, but it’s the fucking San Clemente 500 with guys caught on the inside and surfers on every wave ready to give you a close shave with their fins. It’s hard to get out of the way, but most guys have control, even though that have that wild-eyed look that says, “If I don’t make this section, I might end up killing you with my board.”

     But once the sets stop, I’m paddling through the lineup once more, going between unfamiliar faces, faces that will continue to linger at the bottom.

 

The Ugly:

     I’m tired. The action has been nonstop, either on a wave or paddling back. I continue to paddle in late like I’ve been doing all morning, but I start wiping out. Sliding down at a slight angle, the face is building before me. There’s a little more chop now from the side shore wind. I ride over one of them and eat shit. On another one, I’m in the flat section going so fast that I just lose my fins and flip over. I’m no longer the one-man wrecking crew. I have to scale back operations and be a little pickier.

     Meanwhile, I praise Bri for following me on this campaign. She’s out here, too, making it to the top, dealing with the impact zone on the 6’10 Becker.

     She says she’s tired, so I go in on my last wave. I didn’t tell her I was going in, but I didn’t want to make the paddle back.

     I sit on the hood of my car, waiting for her to return. Fifteen minutes later, she’s still out there. I can’t let my girlfriend out surf me, so I paddle back out and catch two more.

 

6SICKS6, SUN 08FEB2015

Loc: Churches

Time: 1600-1730        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, consistent, crowded, current, windy

Board: Lost Mini Driver, quad setup

     We’re so drained. Plus it’s fucking windy outside. We could easily just hunker down before the evening and enjoy the beach cottage that we’ve rented for one night. Yet, it’s out of our nature to call it quits so soon. From the window, I can see Old Mans and its victory at seas conditions. Something about Churches right now that’s making it holds shape. I can see it from the window, too. Black dots make their way back out from the bottom of the wave. Rights are still peeling, leaving rows of whitewash behind and throughout the chaotic inside. So we pack up our gear for a short drive down the hill. How can’t we paddle out? We’re surfers. . .

     The low tide has changed the surf a little. One, the size has backed off just a notch, maybe half a foot. The inside waves that were lining up along the cobblestone shelf are now too drained to surf. Yet, the outside waves, with less water on the surface, are standing up more performance style.

     “I think I’m just gonna sit near the bottom of the wave and see if I can snag a few there,” I say to Bri. Pff. How stupid of me. I pause in different spots near the bottom of the wave only to make another push to the top once more. It’s this morning all over again.

 

Bri the Bomber:

     Since it’s not as consistent as this morning, the people at the top are able to hold their position. Not as many cleanup sets brushing away the surfers, but the crowd is thinner, so that kind of evens things out.

     Out back, the set waves are still predictably unpredictable, meaning that they’re either gonna swing super wide, north or south, or just break really far out.

     Bri’s to my south about twenty feet, and all of a sudden this fucking roguer just pops up on the horizon. I can already tell that I’m really deep for it, but not deep enough to pass it up. I could turn and go. Everyone else is too far inside—Bri and I had made a good call sitting out back. And the shoulder of this ginormous wave? Yeah, even though I’m deep on the peak, the shoulder’s for sure gonna stand up right where Bri is.

     I look at her and motion with my fingers, pointing for her to turn around and start paddling. Without hesitation, my woman turns around and picks up speed. I turn around too. I stroke and watch Bri to make sure that the wave scoops her up. I pull back, watching the shoulder of the wave, waiting to see if she actually caught it. A grom pulls out for her. I don’t see her the rest of the ride, she isn’t washed up on the inside at all. All I can do is watch the wave peel all the way to where our car is parked. Yeah. She got a bomb.

 

Wave of the Year:

     There are a couple other stubborn people sitting at the top of the wave. They aren’t letting the current pull them south. They’re fighting. It’s really all an act, us sitting so close to each other, acting like we’re not plotting. When I move to the top, others paddle further out to keep position. Luckily the sets are juicy, sending everyone on a mad scramble. I let the first ones go to position for the second or third.

     I catch a wave just inside from the top, but it turns soupy and drops me off near the shallow impact zone. As I’m paddling back out, the first wave of a set is approaching. It’s swinging so wide south and also breaking so far out that everyone is caught off guard.

     I’m not even at the top of the wave yet, and as the wave starts breaking, I watch five surfers in a row fake paddle for the wave, look down the line, and decide not to go. The wave is already running away, and no one wants to paddle into a critical drop.

     I swing my board around as the guy next to me pulls out, too, and I fucking drop right in and take it. Instant speed from the start. The wave is standing up so vertical, short of barreling, because of the tide. The whole lineup’s going over the shoulder as I wind up for my first hack. SNAP 1. Words can’t describe the feeling, when there’s a whole wall of water building before you, pristine Trestles quality, when there’s no need to look down the line because you know that the section is just building and building all the to shore. SNAP 2. Backhand, my priority is not to lose this wave. I want to get some power hacks, but I don’t want to “put on too much mustard and have the hot dog fall out of the bun” (Chick Hearn). SNAP 3. In the early evening darkness, the sun’s already set. The trough at the base of the wave is dark and curling, yet still open. As fluid as possible, like artwork, I’m painting with the tail of my board, winding up for another full wack. SNAP 4. The quads feel so much better. More grip, keeping me from sliding out. I can’t believe this fucking wave is still going. I’m past the Churches campsite and approaching the group site. SNAP 5. Are you fucking serious? This might be the best fucking wave of my life. Is anyone watching? Fuck I’m surfing this fucking thing so good. Ahhhh, ahhh, it’s about to close out. One more under the lip. SNAP 6.

     I ride out of the wave into the flats and straighten out, turning into the wall of whitewash before falling. I resurface, looking on shore. Some dude’s on his cell phone sitting on the sand. And old couple is sitting in camping chairs next to each other. I’ve ridden this wave all the way to the first intersection that leads up to the offices. Rick would be proud.

Drained:

 

    Bri doesn’t feel like cooking. Neither do I, so we’ve opted for chili dogs. After cooking them over the stove, adding a side of coleslaw, boiling the chili, and chopping some onions, we watch some cable TV. That’s right. Real cable. Motherfuckin’ Cartoon Network, homie. We don’t have cable at home. In fact, this fucking cottage is over twice as big as our El Segundo studio.

     We had so many plans. We brought movies, books, and cards, but at 2100 we can’t even keep our eyes open.

     Lying down on the bed butt naked—not a futon like back home—we talk about how good we’ve caught the surf. We agree that we’re both spoiled. It is possible to be broke and rich at the same time.

TAKEN TO SCHOOL, SAT 07FEB2015

Post session photos courtesy of Juan A.

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst to River Jetties

Time: 0815-1115        

Crew: Rick, Juan, Gary

Conditions: 5 – 6 FT+, foggy, hollow, dredging, current, crowded

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     The call is to surf Dog Beach since I’m on Uncle Duty into Saturday morning. Leaving my nephew’s place, I get a call from Juan. He, Garr, and Rick are overlooking the Huntington Cliffs. I tell them I’ll be on the way.

     It’s a legit dawn patrol, being still dark out, but it’s so fucking foggy. After meeting up with the guys, we wait for first light so we can see the water a little better.

     The parking lot fills to capacity. Guys are suiting up, meandering down the cliff, and disappearing into the fog as they paddle out. Still, we can’t see shit, only the inside, which looks soft serve.

     “Most of the guys have fun boards,” says Rick. We’re looking for any clues as to what the surf might be doing.

     I park at Goldenwest, grab my parking pass, and jump in the Suburban with the fellas to hit Brookhurst instead.

     “Let’s just suit up and go,” says Garr. “No need to look at it.”

     As we’re suiting up, guys are coming back from the water with disappointed looks on their faces. I ask one of them how it was.

     “I only came back to change my leash,” he says. “It’s a little walled out there, but there are some good ones.” He widens his eyes. “It’s bi-i-i-ig.”

     Going back to the car, I deliver the intel. We are all still a little doubtful. The Cliffs didn’t look like it was thumping. How big can it be?

 

FIFTY YEAR OLDS NOT GIVING A FUCK:

     The surf looks small, but the paddle out is much longer than it had looked from the foggy shore. The inside is punchy. I duckdive a couple of waves and nearly get pulled back. Already, I feel the current dragging me south.

     When I get to the lineup, some guy asks me, “Where am I?”

     “What?”

     “Where did you paddle out?”

     “Tower four,” I say.

     He turns to his friend. “Dude! We fuckin’ drifted way south!” To my south, a migration of surfers is trying to paddle north.

     The first few waves that come in are standard HB classic peaks, just fast teepees at four to five feet. I’m a bit sketched. One, I can’t see shit. We can’t see the waves until they are about to break on top of us, so timing is a bitch. Two, there’s just an eerie energy in the air, and you can see it on everyone’s face. Today is a no bullshit day.

     Meanwhile, Rick, Juan, and Gary have different looks on their faces. Fuckin’ guys. . . I mean, they are well in their fifties, and the gleam on their faces just reflects their childhood connection. They’ve known each other for years, have paddled out in harrowing conditions together, and I don’t doubt that they’re giving each other that same look that they’ve given each other throughout the years. Just then, Rick paddles late into a dredging hollow left. He resurfaces some distance away towards the inside, still beaming when he gets back to the lineup. There is no fear in their faces. Only stoke.

     So the sets get bigger. It’s definitely not a small day at all, not mooshy, not whatever Dog Beach had led us to believe. Solitary A-frames jut out of the sea, hazy and gray, smooth and unblemished, but harnessing HB power as soon as they stand up and break.

     My penis retreats into my body like a snail. After I duckdive a rogue wave, barely making it, I officially have a vagina. My clitoris retreats so far into my pussy that it’s sticking out of my asshole, which has just gone from wrinkled brown to smooth pink.

     “Go, Matt!” says Gary. I look out. Actually, I’ve been looking out. I can’t take my eyes off the outside. Yeah, it’s a big fucking right. I paddle out and duckdive into the face before it’s even breaking. It’s a straight up bitch move.

     My excuse is that I’m picky. If I’m going to risk absolute obliteration, I better make sure that I’m in the perfect spot and not late. I know how fast these waves are, and I’m not gonna air drop on a day like today. Plus, I do not want to get caught in the impact zone on one of these waves. I may not be able to make it back out.

     And these Venice Vets are just thriving in these conditions. One by one, I watch Juan go. Rick goes, who supposedly doesn’t like barrels, and is pulling in. Gary’s brazen enough to hang out towards the inside to take everything that’s rideable.

     Juan comes back saying, “I almost made it out of that one.”

     Rick goes for broke and paddles super late on a left, somehow still covering some distance. “I air dropped,” he says when he comes back. “Almost didn’t make it.”

     I finally pull the trigger on a smaller right. It’s shouldery, so I wind up for a backhand snap. I have so much speed that my tail slides out on the shoulder like I’m grinding a rail. Had I ridden out of it, it would’ve been a cool manuever.

 

     Resurfacing, I’m caught in the impact zone of the next wave. I duckdive as deep as I can and actually make it out the back, but the fucking wave sucks back and pulls me under. Not as bad as getting pounded. I don’t know how, but my shitty duckdives are actually working, and I make it out fairly unscathed.

     Juan calls me into another wave. It’s a big right. I scratch and kick and get the drop. It’s stretching out and about to close, so I jump over the lip and land behind it. Looking out back, everyone is darting outside. Here comes the roguer.

     I had once said that big perfectly shaped waves are sometimes scarier than walls. Perfection can be power sometimes, and I’m in the impact zone of a huge perfect HB peak. I’m going to have to pay this one in full, I’m thinking. I debate on stalling my paddle to duck the stampede or charge it to make it over. I paddle as hard as I can. The wave is big and slowly building as it approaches. I make it over. I look behind me and remember that Gary’s on the inside. The next wave is even bigger.

     Once the set is over, I see Gary on the inside with a half dozen other surfers. Ten minutes later, he’s on shore.

     Juan takes a long right and disappears. The fog slightly dispersers. We’re in front of the River Jetties.

     I back out of a huge right. Rick takes it. I assume the worst. He’s eaten shit, there’s no way he could have—

     “Woohoo!” he says as he kicks out and over the shoulder. Barrel. He just got a backside barrel.

     I beat the next set, and now Rick is gone. I try to harness the energy of my far-gone testicles and take some waves. I see other guys who have also lost their penises, pulling back on the big ones. Some guys are still pulling in, even on the closeouts, backhand, comfortable in these conditions.

     I finally take a right and plan to grab rail and pig dog, but my plans go awry. Somewhere between grabbing my rail, the wave just doubles up, and I do a forward somersault with the curling lip. Since the bitch in me says that now might be a good time to find the guys, I catch the whitewash in and head back towards the Suburban.

     It’s a bit of a walk. I even have to paddle through the river mouth to get to the other side. When I reach the Suburban, I find Rick there, too. “I thought they’d be here,” he says. Gary and Juan are still out there somewhere, so Rick and I start over at tower four.

 

RESET:

     I think about how I had surfed a slab in Java with razor sharp reef. I also think about the big days in Manhattan Beach that I had surfed. Despite all those experiences, I’m out of my league today.

     A guy paddles into a set-wave left going backhand. He grabs rail as the glassy green lip swirls over him. I turn around to see if he makes it out. He resurfaces on the inside. With a face full of anger, he slaps the water and curses out loud. It’s that kind of morning.

     In the distance, Juan is paddling towards us. He’s been in the water the whole time and has just paddled all the way over from River Jetties.

     I had said that I don’t feel comfortable going backside on huge bombs, and I’m lucky enough to snag some of the rare lefts that come through. I pull in on a medium sized left, and the lip throws out over me. I’m in the tube but a bit too deep and get pinched at the end.

     Juan says that it had lined up nicely, too. Fuck. If I could make it out of one of those, just get one barrel, this whole session will be worth it, despite losing my penis and all.

     I catch another left and pull in. Pinched again.

     I notice Gary’s purple board on shore. He’s walking towards the Suburban. I wave. He wave’s back.

     With the incoming tide, the waves soften up a bit more and become more manageable. On my attempts to pull in I see that the waves aren’t going hollow, so I work on my frontside wraps. At the three-hour mark, we call the session.

#

     Over breakfast, we learn what had happened to everyone. Juan caught a long right and got caught by the current after that. He never left the water and made it all the way back to tower four. Gary made it back out after getting pounded by that set. He had become victim of the BMS sandwich: board, me, sand.

     And then there are the war stories, the battles, the best waves, the barrels. I can only sit there and chew my food while I listen, wide eyed, in awe of them.