Loc: HB
Crew: Francis
Time: 0715-1015
Conditions: Overcast, hazy, glassy, dead-wind, high tide, semi-consistent, 3-4 ft with occasional 5, fast, hollow on the bigger sets.
I wonder if I’ve been surfing too much. After returning from Oceanside yesterday, Francis asked where we should surf. Since there’s a small south in the swell, I thought that HB would be a good call—more chance for some combo peaks, and the sandbars are much better there anyway. Unfortunately, Khang couldn’t roll, so it was just us two.
I’ve barely slept four hours, but Francis calls; he’s outside. It’s 0555. I should be a zombie, but I manage to get all my gear and head downstairs in minutes. Francis is driving this morning, thank goodness. He says, “Matt, have a donut.”
“Awwww, man . . . that’s gonna make me shit . . . okay.” It tastes like bread that’s been soaked and fried in sugar. “Is this Krispy Kreme’s?” I ask as I furiously suck my fingers.
“No, 7-Eleven.”
I’ve been driving a lot, so I welcome the change of sitting shotgun. We’re not expecting much, as the swell is backing off, and despite the forecast I’m only anticipating three-feet.
When we park and look at the surf, it looks a little walled and consistent. The tide is still at mid level. At least it’s not flat. On our way back to the truck Francis tells me that he took the best shit of the year yesterday morning at the airport. It was from the pizza and ice cream with brownies that we had the other night. Just as I pull up my wetsuit it hits me. I feel a fecal tsunami rush-up against my backdoor. There’s no way. Fuckin’ donut. The bathrooms are a short jog away from the truck. I play with the idea of just shitting on the sand somewhere or under the lifeguard tower, but I don’t want shit remnants floating around in my wetsuit. I tell him to go ahead as I jog to the restrooms. It’s a good thing that I do. So much comes out. It’s like an iceberg, protruding out of the water. As uncomfortable as it is to take a crap with a wet wetsuit around my ankles, I now feel like a million bucks, ready to surf.
It’s a mellow morning on different accounts. For one, it’s overcast. Even though the sun is up, the haziness of it all gives off a lethargic mood, like one of those mornings when you look out the window and decide to stay home. Also, the water’s really glassy; there’s no wind at all. The glassiness and gray skies are almost mirror images. Other than a couple small ripples, it’s hard to tell where the horizon ends and begins, let alone any waves that might be approaching. Lastly, the crowd. . . . I don’t know if people got turned-off by the high tide, but where is everyone? Even River Jetties only has a few heads. Other surfers are around, but they are all spread out. We have the surf to ourselves.
Surprisingly, the fading swell is still lingering pretty strong. There are just as many four-foot waves as there are three-foot waves. The sets that break on the outside are an easy five-feet and hollow. The swell direction must be good because there are peaks everywhere.
After an initial lull, Francis and I go to work. There are so many pick-and-choose corners that it turns into a wave fest. We get a variety of rides. Some are fast and steep but bog out after the second turn. Some are mooshy, long, and weak. The only thing that bothers me about this session is that I can’t find much to write about it. We surfed for about three hours, and into the third hour we become exhausted. As the tide rises, the paddle back to the lineup gets longer and longer. Also, the rogue sets are breaking so far out, that it’s an easy, four-wave duckdive session over a long distance.
Failed Bombs:
I have a couple good wipeouts early. Unlike Trestles, you really don’t want to catch a wave here late. The earlier, the better. Even though the rogue sets are only five feet, they are a powerful, lip-slamming five-feet. They break so far outside that, if you want to catch the wave, you have to paddle your hardest to go out and meet it or else you’ll be too deep. On a couple I don’t make it out far enough, and I get pitched on the attempted “turn and go.” A wave that still haunts me is from the biggest, three-wave set of the day. I paddled towards the shoulder but I’m too deep. The second one is even bigger, but it breaks a little further out so I’m too deep again. Francis is on the inside making his way out, and he has front row seats to watch me catch the last one. Another guy tries to snake me, so I drop-in just a little deeper than him. There is almost no shoulder to this wave. The drop is literally the barrel. The wave stands vertical as I pop up, and I’m sliding down the tight shoulder thinking about how I’m going to stall, but I fucking purl. A small group of guys see this from another peak. I can only smile at Francis as he paddles by. “Did you feel it spit?” he asks.
“Nah. . . .”
“Yeah, the wave spit out as you fell.”
“Fuck!” I paddle with him with a defeated smile. “That one’s gonna haunt me for the whole day, I know it . . . I’m gonna take that one home with me.”
The natural reaction is to be anxious for another similar set, but it never comes. I think about how much I want to get barreled, and the failed opportunity kills me but then I think about the Wounded Warriors from yesterday. My mood changes from disappointment to gratefulness, and that’s not like me at all (if you know me, you know this is true). Instead of focusing on my failure, I’m just happy that I had the opportunity to try.
My last memorable wipeout is with me going over the falls; it’s my first time. It’s like being submerged in water, but you’re in the air, and the water is more like a waterfall that pours down on you as you’re falling.
On another left, going backside, Francis grabs rail and angles his whole body until he’s slotted tightly into the almond, but he gets pinched right at the end. It’s good to surf with someone who charges; he makes me want to surf harder when I see him go.
All it takes is that one, asshole seal:
There are a lot of dolphins this morning as well as a couple seals. The water just a couple feet away from me starts to stir. I panic and nearly fall off my board, and then a big, brown belly of blubber surfaces. Goodness. I don’t like those kinds of surprises in the water. The last time a dolphin scared the shit out of me was at Bay St. years ago. I try to yell out to Francis to tell him what happened, but he’s far away, so I watch the seal swim off towards another surfer. The seal disappears and does the same exact thing to the other guy. He freaks out, splashes, and even after he sees it’s not a shark he still paddles away with purpose. Seals . . . they’ve gotta be fucking with us.
The right way to end it:
I can’t describe a whole series of waves like I usually do, but in three hours we catch enough waves that we’re worn out. Francis later tells me that he was sitting on the sand earlier because he was done, but it looked so fun that he came back. The thing is that HB isn’t a wave machine. There are lulls, but never long enough to question the surf. Also, sometimes the surf does turn-on to the point that we have to miss waves too. The ocean setS the tone. The ideal session is one in which the waves conform to the surfer, where everything is “meant to be,” timed right, or a gamble on where to sit transforms into a memorable ride. Today it isn’t about “us.” Put it this way. . . . Usually a surfer leaves after conditions deteriorate: onshore wind, mooshiness, decreased wave size, poor shape, crowds, and closeouts. However, the waves never stop coming; the wind never changes, and the water is still glassy as a lake. Even the high tide has no effect on the waves. How often do you paddle out in good conditions only to leave while the conditions are just as good if not better?
Francis is waiting on shore, and I’m trying to get my last one. It feels like a long lull. That could be it . . . no more. Randomly, a bump starts to form towards the outside, so I paddle. I’ve tried to pick off lefts the whole morning to work on my frontside turns, and this wave is another one. I’m trying to make it count, so I drop-in just behind the shoulder but not too deep. The instant pitch sends me flying down the line. The face has a good five-feet to work with. Off of a fast bottom turn, I come back up the face, shift my weight on the tail, and do one of my best frontside carves ever. It’s just the speed; the steep drop sends me flying. I rarely pull-off nice turns going left. The sensation on this wave is so fast and fluid, but yet it only happens in a flash. I need more repetition to know it. Francis critiques my ride and says, “You cut it in the right place, but the way you’re ending it. . . ?” I bogged out and fell at the end, typical for me.
As we look back at the ocean we watch a couple more waves roll in. Even the crowd thins-out with only a couple guys on the sand warming up. We leave the gold exactly where we found it and how we left it.
Splurge:
It’s a long drive to Torrance, in fact it’s out of the way of El Segundo completely, but we’re starving. There’s nothing like surf hunger combined with a long drive. We’re not simply hungry; we’re pissed-off, rape your anus hungry. I’ve been going to the Seafood Town Chinese restaurant since I was nineteen. I treat Francis since he drove, and I’ve also been raving about this place to him for months. We order the walnut shrimp, beef chow fun, and eggplant with garlic sauce.
We try to eat slowly, but we’re full and packing-up leftovers an hour later. Good surf followed by good food, we’re ready to slip into a coma, not bad for an unsuspecting Wednesday.
