THE ONE, SAT 30MAY2015

 

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Klaude

Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent, overcast

     I distinctly remember this morning as overcast and gloomy. I had just gotten over being combo’d by food poisoning and flu-like symptoms that followed. However, I didn’t miss out on too much surf because of the oil pods that were contaminating the South Bay. Either way, I was due up for some surf. Dead or alive, flat or not, I was going to take a looks.

     Even though the surf looked dismal at 26^th Street, I didn’t hesitate changing into my wetsuit and grabbing my board, a simple routine that I had missed so much.    

     I didn’t see the usual local crew hanging out in the lot, so I just made my way to the water. Upon paddling out into the lineup, I realized that I didn’t recognize most of the people here. It’s like the company had gone through some kind of massive change and I didn’t get the memo.

     Klaude was there. It was such a bummer surf day that we showed it on our faces, scrounging for waves in different directions without keeping track of each other. I went south, he went north, and with empty bags of candy we met up again in front of the tower.

     The conditions were clean and glassy but without shape, just racy and too fast.

     Roy was out, talking to some grom about where they’d been surfing lately and how they’d been scoring. I couldn’t help to think that I used to be that guy who had a “score story,” too.

     “Matt,” said Roy. I looked up. I already knew he was calling me into a wave. Even though the wave closed out, it’s still nice to know I get that local courtesy, especially from a vet like Roy.

     When Klaude left, Toru showed up. We bullshitted for a little while. I was ready to leave, too. On the sand, Klaude was making his way over the strand. Out back, a wave was coming in, deceiving and racy, but I was in the perfect spot where the wave tapered off to merely nothing.

     I paddled out to meet it, and that’s when the corner doubled up. I turned and went, barely keeping my nose out from purling.

     The rest was ugly. I pumped to keep pace with the shoulder. I bottom turned, top turned, and felt like I was on the verge of falling behind. The ride ended with two more sloppy hits, but they were still hits nonetheless, and when my feet hit the sand on the inside, I knew that there was no better way I could end the session on a better note.

CLASSIC TRESTLES, WHERE ART THOU?, MON 25MAY2015

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri

Time: 0700-1000                  

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, low tide, overcast, glassy, walled

Board: Lost Mini Driver, 5’10

     Klaude’s advice would be not to set your expectations too high, but it’s hard not to give my favorite Cali spot “high expectations.” North Churches, the left. For a goofy footer, I can’t tell you how much value a Trestles-quality left has. So when Surfline forecasts 3-4 Occasional 5 Feet for Memorial Day, you can bet that I’m gonna be stoked. Having been skunked before, I know there are two factors I have to be weary of. One, will it actually be smaller than predicted? Two, will there be too much south in the swell that will produce walled shape?

     The drive south is already looking glum. Gray skies and overcast, not an ideal beachbum kind of day. Exiting Basilone road, we see that Middles looks like one long closeout.

     Parking near Churches, we can see that there is definitely swell activity in the water. Size is not an issue today. It’s definitely big enough, but waves are a bit walled and sectiony. Despite the marine layer, at least it’s clean and offshore.

     Bri and I change and follow three other longboarders ahead of us. At the top of Churches, longboarders are sitting on top of one another, stagnant. That’s a bad sign. When we get to the northern tip of Churches, where the lefts are, the other guys in front of us paddle out right there. Just then, a peak rolls in, offering some sectiony but surfable shoulders. “Right there!” I say to Bri.

     So we paddle out and sit wide from the crowd as usual, hoping to sneak some waves under everyone else’s radar. Another weird thing about this morning is how soft it’s breaking. Even though the tide’s low, the waves are coming in soft and breaking late.

     Bri and I scratch around for about fifteen minutes not catching shit. Top of the wave is working, but the peaks stretch and section out. Fuck, I already know . . . skunked big time.

     I’m not one to abandon my favorite spot so easily, but we move the party on over to Middles where it appears to be working a little bit better. We try to sit wide towards the inside of Middles, but nothing breaks by us. It’s just as bad here. People piled on top of each other, ready for anal rapeage.

     There’s nothing like the loathing that rises within me upon being skunked. I hate everything right now. Drove for a fucking hour, and for what? Just about everyone around me is wearing the same scowl on his face. Bri’s the only chick here, and she’s scowling, too.

     I ditch the sitting-wide technique and sit at the top of Middles, and, holy shit, I actually get a few waves. Well, the quality still sucks, still sectiony and racy, but a few stay open long enough for a good handful of single-shot rides.

     On a setwave right, I bust out a closeout hack on a pretty critical section. Bri works the inside, catching a right after two guys before her had scratched out. So now we’re doing okay, but it’s still just “okay.” Man, it’s just not what we drive down here for.

     Bri goes back to the car after two hours. I’m stubborn, so I wait it out a little longer for vain hopes of a miracle, the miracle that shit will just change.

     Even though I’m getting waves, I hate competing, and I’m robbing other people of rides, and I don’t like that feeling either, so I work my way back to north Churches where I’m immediately reminded of why I had ditched this spot earlier. It’s still inconsistent with twice as many people now.

     I paddle through the lineup until I’m at the bottom of Churches, all the way by the military campsites. Wagner, local 45^th Street Kingpin, is actually out here with two groms. Poor guy. He’s scratching for waves and kicking out as soon as he pops up. There’s this bewildered look on his face that says, “I thought that it was supposed to be good today?”

     Welcome to the party.

AFTER FOOD POISONING, SAT 23MAY2015

Loc: El Porto, 40^th Street

Crew: Bri, Rick, Gary, Dave T.

Time: 0615-0745                  

Conditions: 2-3 FT, low tide, offshore, windswell

Board: Motorboat Too

     After being gone for a week, I had been looking forward to surfing again. Unfortunately, I got food poisoning my last day on duty. At first I thought it was a hangover, but when I started pissing out of my asshole into the second day, I realized it was a bit more serious than I had thought.

     On Friday night, after having a chance to recover since Tuesday, I get the text from Gary: “Where you surfing at, Duckbutter?” Initially I wanted to go to 26^th Street to get my local card stamped, but since the Gare Bear actually reached out to me, I figured it would be nice to catch up with him and the other guys as well.

#

     I wake up at 0530, which is late. Late because I know the WHC is already in the water at this very moment. “We’re late,” I say to Bri, but I don’t push too hard. I take my time getting up, eat a snack, fill our water jugs, and then I start to nudge her out of bed.

     The surf looks small on the way to Porto. I can’t tell if it’s actually decent enough to surf, but it doesn’t matter because I had already made the commitment to paddle out.

     Pulling into the parking lot, I already see everyone’s cars lined up and abandoned. Yup, they’re definitely out there.

     There’s some patchy overcast in the sky. If anything, it’s definitely not sunny. As soon as we reach the sand, we see three black wetsuits in front of 40^th Street, only two other guys are further north in front of the sandwich shack.

     One by one, Rick, Garr, and Dave each get waves, but the surf is a little lackluster. Consistent lines are rolling in on the low tide, but they just look too small to crank good carves on. It looked like more of a trimming and distance day than anything.

     With my new 4/3, I enter the water. It’s sealed water tight, save for the trickle that gets in through the backzip; I haven’t used one of these in a while.

     Gary spots us first. We wave. Pretty soon the five of us are holding down the spot.

     I can’t remember the last really good session that I’ve had. Even Churches a couple of weeks ago was a bit average on the stokometer, and I’m not expecting too much this morning. However, for what the small surf has to offer, these guys are attacking the waves indiscriminately, the same way they’d attack the surf on a rippable day. Rick goes backhand and throws out a bucket. As the morning goes on, despite a growing crowd, Gary finds himself in perfect position on two setwaves. On his pill, he just pumps down the line, making the sections, to set up for one finishing carve all the way on the inside, nearly halfway to the next tower north.

     I do all right. For a day like today, I get one backhand hack on a good open-face section. I put as much mustard as I can on it, letting out a week’s worth of pent up surf aggression and another four days of food poisoning on top of it.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I get thumbs up from the guys. One wave. Honorable mention. It’s a decent start to being back home.