THE ONE PT.III, TUE 02JUN2015

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Goldenwest

Time: 0815-0930

Conditions: 2 FT+, weak

     So there’s a south swell coming in. I wake up late and look at my Surfline App and take a look at the northside of the HB Pier. Fair to Good, 3-4 FT+.

     It’s a coffee, and I’m out the door, no bullshitting. I can already picture clean peaks at the HB Cliffs, my “Easy Barrel” session that I had there, many moons ago, still fresh in my mind. And of course, what happens? As soon as I pass Bolsa Chica and hit Seapoint, right where PCH opens up and you can see the surf, there are weak crumbly lines coming in.

     I park at the HB Cliffs. The fact that I can get a parking spot is a bad sign. A crew of six old vets sit atop the railing, watching the surf with coffees in hand. Barely anyone’s out. It’s like the tide’s already too high, but it shouldn’t be. The waves are breaking and rolling so softly that they’re not rideable until they almost break. Up and down the beach looks the same.

     As Klaude would say, “I didn’t come here not to surf,” so I head to Goldenwest and park in the neighborhood. I imagine how surf in the South Bay is probably better than this right now.

     A few groms park on PCH and walk out for a surf check as I’m making my way down the stairs. When I turn around, they’re leaving. Yet, more people are out over here, but everyone’s just sitting.

     I paddle out. The water’s warm and glassy. It’s still overcast. Waves come in and look like they’re going to break. I scratch out on everything.

     On a rogue peak, I turn and go while the lip is already spilling. The flat whitewash pushes me, but the wave drains out as I’m popping up. I force one check snap on the lip before the wave closes, hardly a legit turn.

     It took about forty-five minutes to get that wave. It could be “The One.” I could end it now, turn around, head back up the sand, cross PCH, and call it a morning. Against my better judgement, I paddle back out and hope that I can get more waves by paddling into them late. I don’t. Again, I’m wondering what Manhattan Beach is doing.

     Mad and frustrated, I turn towards the shore and do the Paddle of Shame. I should have left earlier.

THE ONE PT.II, SUN 31MAY2015

Loc: El Porto, 45^th Street

Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent, overcast

     Again, I’m at 26^th Street, and the surf looks even smaller than yesterday. Down by the lifeguard tower, I see Stocky John and Robert with two other local guys. They’re standing in front of their cars by the meters, chopping it up over the surf as usual. Mitch is at ground level, half-changed into a wetsuit. “Park here,” he says, pointing to a VIP spot right next to him.

     So I park, look up to the guys and say a few words. The other two who I don’t know are just looking at me with hard faces. I wonder if I’ve burned them before, or if I’m not as nice as a surfer as I imagine. I don’t think I’m an asshole surfer. . . Despite the VIP parking, after my recon check, I’m out.

     Now I’m at 45^th Street, and, as always, there’s a hair more size here. A few weak sets roll by, but it’s when I see someone get a few turns on a left that I’m sold.

     I VOX Klaude, change, and hit the water. Whiffle Boy is out. He says he hasn’t surfed in weeks. I tell him about Bri and me going to Indo soon. “Same place. Only three weeks,” I say.

     “Only?”

     So I move a little south to find a gap in the sparse lineup. Compared to yesterday, I’m catching a lot of waves, but the quality is still an issue. I get a weak floater, pull in on some closeouts, and that’s about it.

     Almost at the hour and a half mark, a right comes in. I can’t believe it’s opening up as I’m pumping. Since the wave is fast, I force a bottom turn and snap. It’s ugly, but it works. I get another hit and a kickout snap to end it.

     Once more, I’m walking out of the water after having caught a wave. It’s such a good way to end a session. I could get used to this.

     Back home, Klaude calls. He had paddled out by the 34^th Street area. He comes over for coffee, and then Bri and I head to the movies. $6.00 matinee prices for first movie. Mad Max and Avengers for free. Mad Max was better.

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.