ROOM, MON 09MAR2015

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street                            
Time: 0930-1045
Conditions: 1-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent.
Board: Zippi

     I’m not gonna let a small forecast hold me back from surfing, especially after my last fun small-wave session just days ago. Thanks to Surfline’s rating of today’s crappy surf, the whole Porto lot is vacant, save for a few desperados like myself.

     I spot fellow surf blogger Surf Sistah changing in front of the bathrooms. She’s a pretty rad longboarder, to the idea of surfing with her has me stoked. I leave the lot and find free parking.

     It’s slim pickings for surf this morning, but my expectations are low. If I can sneak away a turn or two while going down the line, my morning will be made.

     I paddle out by Surf Sistah and shoot the shit with her a little bit. I didn’t know she lives in Crenshaw. “And I have to drop the kids off before driving here,” she says. She always has a wide smile underneath her dreadlocks. On the small rights, she pops up and goes left, riding the reform that gives her an open face, but the surf looks too small for even her board.

     Meanwhile, the Zippi’s holding its own. My best flurry is three waves I get back to back to back. Even on the tiny ones, all I have to do is turn and go while kicking, and I’m in there.

     When Surf Sistah leaves, we wave to each other, and I hang back to get a few more. This spot is usually packed with an agro lineup, but it’s on small days like these when you can surf the best beach break in the South Bay all to yourself with plenty of room.

BAD JOKE 2 (double sesh), THU 05MAR2015

Loc: El Porto, 45^th Street                            
Time: 0945-1200        
Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent, swampy. 
Board: Motorboat Too

     I’m gonna be at work tomorrow all the way through Sunday, leaving me with today being my last chance for a decent session. With a pulse from the south steadily rising, today is supposed to be a good day of surf.

     Unlike yesterday, I choose my window wisely, not dawn patrolling and going too early. Gotta wait for the tide to at least top out. By 0900, the morning already seems to be passing me by. I can’t wait any longer, so I head out the door by 0930.

     Looking down the 45^th Street hill, I see lines coming in, but none of them have broken. A few surfers paddle into my sights and disappear into the peripheries. Regardless, I have a good feeling about today. It’s a hot beautiful spring day. The water’s glassy and inviting. Anything seems possible.

     I trot down the hill with my Motorboat Too in hand because the surf is gonna change. That window’s gonna open, the tide’s gonna go down, and I’m gonna have some fun shortboardable rippable three-foot peaks to ride. That’s all I want. At least three feet. That’s it.

     When I reach the sand, a soft set rolls in, breaking in the main take off spots at 45^th and in front of the tanks, but they moosh out and reform into shorepound. Looks promising though. There is some kind of pulse out there.   

     Paddling out, the water’s deep on the inside. I turn and go on an inside wave, and it mooshes out the second I pop up.

     I patrol the lineup, patiently, waiting for surf conditions to improve. A few set waves pop up, but the bigger they are the shittier their shape, and I can only go straight or pump away on their racy sections.

     Into my first hour, I still haven’t gotten one fucking turn. A few good waves do come in, legit three-foot plus with corners. A chick who looks like Malia Manuel gets one of them, cranking off a backhand snap at the end of it.

     “That’s the best wave I’ve seen all morning,” I say to her.

     “Yeah,” she says, “like every fifteen minutes!”

     But it’s not fifteen minutes. It takes longer than that. Guys are just as desperate as I am, sitting on top of each other for prime position. I get one of the bigger ones of the morning, but it races away too fast. It had actually curled a little. Maybe I should have just pulled in? I don’t know.

     Meanwhile, a second gem rolls through, another rare down-the-line left. Malia Manuel lookalike is on it again. I paddle over the shoulder as she glides right past me. I want a wave just like it, but it never comes.

     I surf until noon, forcing the whole session, waiting to meet my quota, but it never happens. Looking at the ocean while walking backwards, the surf actually looks like it’s getting better. Or is it? Sometimes it always looks better when you’re leaving, but I had just wasted the whole morning and didn’t catch shit. It’s a shitty way to part with the ocean before seeing it again next week.

#

OLD RELIABLE, THU 05MAR2015

Loc: El Porto, 45^th Street                            

Time: 1400-1545   

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, low tide.    

Board: Zippi

     I’m unloading my gear back home when Bri just gets back from work. We’re supposed to go to the gym, but she says she’s feeling lazy. “We could go to the beach,” I say. “It’s small, but it’s surfable on a big board.” After scarfing down a vegetable smoothie, some cookies, and water, we’re heading back to El Porto with my wagon loaded up.

     The onshore wind’s barely coming up, so the conditions are still nice. On the lower tide, the peaks are standing up a little bit more and coming in more consistent. The sun is blinding and lower on the horizon. I rarely surf at this hour, but I really need to redeem myself for the last two sessions. With my Zippifish, I’m hoping that I’ll finally have an advantage with the small surf.

     I don’t know if it’s because Bri is out here, because I have the right board, or because the surf’s actually improved, but I immediately wrack up a wavecount higher than the last two sessions combined. The surf is different when you have the right equipment. Lackluster waves on my Motorboat Too are now open-face rippable on the Zippi. Back to back, Bri and I are trading off on waves. Only a few longboarders actually know what they’re doing out here, but besides them we’re owning the “beginner hour.”     

     I’m getting legit cutbacks on the lefts, even getting three backhand snaps on a right. From the inside, I watch Bri going left on her backhand. She bottom turns, climbs the face, and does a check turn high up on the pocket, stalling her 6’8 NSP to stay where the power is. It’s the best turn/maneuver I’ve ever seen her do.

     We have to leave a little after an hour because Bri has to go to work, but I leave feeling satisfied, a feeling that I haven’t had in a while. It kind of puts everything in perspective. Maybe I didn’t even need to wait for those windows, dawn patrolling in HB early and coming here to Porto with my shortboard. Equipment was key this session, and the Zippifish made the whole difference. I’m never gonna discount this board again. I can still dawn patrol. I can still surf. All along, I just needed the right board. Surf has been right here all along.

BAD JOKE, WED 04MAR2015

Damn, you. . . Damn, you. . . .

Loc: Bolsa Chica                                     

Time: 0830-1030   

Crew: Cassady

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy. 

Board: Motorboat Too

     Today was supposed to be the day. With Surfline forecasting south-facing beaches at 4-5 Occasional 6ft, how could I not be stoked? To make up for last Tuesday’s missed opportunity to surf good HB, I damn sure wasn’t gonna miss out on today. I had even planned to meet up with my buddy Cassady who lives in Long Beach.

     I’m out the door at 0550, and it’s still not early enough. The horizon’s already a metallic orange, bright enough to be in the water. First light’s much earlier now.

     My first destination is the HB Cliffs. Despite being late for first light, I must be early because barely anyone is parked here. The wind is light offshore, not a cloud in the sky. Save for the sub sixty-degree air temp, it’s a perfect day. I step up to the railing to have a look at the surf, and nothing is breaking. Tide. There’s just too much water on the surface. Nothing but shorepound action. No one is out right here. Further south, a few heads sit closer to Goldenwest.

     I drive further south to take a chance on Brookhurst. On the way there, I see some waves breaking at Goldenwest. There’s a lot of activity at the pier. However, the surf has that mooshy teepee shape. The sets are bigger, but they’re breaking section on section. It’s not classic. No legit peaks.

"And that's when Donny realized that he might have been better off staying local."

     The feeling of getting skunked officially sets in when I do reach Brookhurst. Same story here as the pier. Yet, guys are out. The end section of a wave has a racy shoulder. It looks doable, but it’s not what I expect when it comes to this place, especially with the given forecast. I can’t blame Surfline. It did say “Slow morning” because of the high tide. I just hoped it wouldn’t be this bad.

     So I find myself at Bolsa Chica, taking advantage of my state pass. It’s shorepounding here, so I bust out my book that I had brought with me and kill some time.

     After struggling to stay awake through my book, Cassady arrives a little after 0800. “We could surf here or check out The Cliffs again,” I say.

     “Nah,” says Cas. “I’d rather surf here for a half hour. I have a meeting at work.”

     We’re in the water by 0830. The window should be better. The tide’s going down, and there’s enough swell to start pushing through the moosh. Immediately, I get a couple of fat shoulders. They turn racy, and all I can do is pump for distance and finish with some baby floaters. Cassady, on his longboard, milks the whole half hour, getting fun rides.

     “It looks like there’s potential,” I say. “Maybe another hour?”

     When Cassady leaves, I have the whole break to myself. A few guys sit two towers south of me. My spot shuts down. It seems to be more consistent where the other guys are. I paddle over, and either the waves break too far out or they’re too soft and break late. Even with perfect conditions, me burning hot in my wetsuit, negative wind, sunny skies, and a hyped-up south swell, I cannot get a turn for the life of me.

     Guys show up for surf checks on the sand and leave. It’s fucking 1000 now. The tide should be better, right? It’s gonna turn. The window’s gonna open. It’s gonna get good.

     By 1030, I’m so fucking frustrated. Out there with the seagulls, I have a good sit down with myself. I’d like to think I’m a dedicated surfer. It’s my lifeblood. Maybe not on a charger or international scale, but at least for an average local guy, I’m a fanatic. I’ve earned that. But its days like these when I feel like a joke.

     The demons come out. What am I doing with myself, my life, sitting here waiting for the good wave that isn’t coming. Or maybe it will. Later, the tide’s gonna get lower. This spot’s gonna be transformed, littered with peaks. I could stay and grab breakfast somewhere. Coffee, finish off my book, check it again around lunch time.

     I willingly do the paddle of shame to shore. Driving home, I have a hard time finding the right music to fit the mood.