THE RELEASE PT.10, TUE 15MAY2012 MOR

Location: Churches to Middles

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-5 FT, light onshore, consistent, warm, sunny.

     I notice the light outside, so I take a look at my watch—0600. Though this morning is not like yesterday morning. The light outside is gray and overcast by the clouds. Something stinks. Is it my sleeping bag or my damp towels? Is the smell coming from the same shorts and tank top that I’ve been wearing since Thursday, or could it be from the underwear that I haven’t changed as well. Everything in my wagon smells like a sock with rotten shrimp in it.

     When I open the door, I’m met with onshore wind. It’s cold. The water has texture on it, good for an evening session, but bad for the morning. There’s no need to rush. I go to the same porta potty I’ve been using since Thursday, but it’s filled. I see someone else’s turd that they dropped. I want to take a picture, but I left my camera in the car. The turd is orange, but the very tip of it is a hardened, dark brown. Amazing. Yes . . . God does exist.

     I didn’t let my wetsuit dry thoroughly, so I struggle with getting all the kinks out. I can’t believe that I’ve never owned a 4/3 wetsuit. This winter, for sure I’m buying one.

     This is a premature ending to this whole surf journey, to end it with poor conditions. I sit at the bottom of the wave, arriving at the same time the San O crowd does. Just then, a set breaks at the top of the wave, and then some waves swing wide by us. Holy shit . . . there’s surf! I duckdive since I’m out of position, and I go to the middle of the wave.

     The top of the wave is crowded, so I stay away from there. Some guys are on the bottom, and only a few stragglers sit in the middle, unsure where the next gem will sprout. When the set comes, it’s breaking so far out that I have to shoot to the horizon to beat it. It’s a church bombing all over again. I scratch into the last wave of the set and go right. The best part about all these Churches’ waves during this trip is the drop, that’s it. The first section is rippable, but after that the wave goes too long and walled, and the shoulder forms at the inside point. So it’s very early on my ride that I try my turns. I get one backside carve well under the lip, and then I have to watch for traffic in the whitewash.

     After another ride, I’m caught on the inside. Again, I’m getting pounded. My shoulder muscles are toast, just done after surfing so much. On the next set, I get a lined-up right. Finally, I know that I can make the section if I bottom turn right, right . . . OH FUCK! There’s this old man on a fun board paddling out, but he’s in my line, critical. He’s exactly where I need to be, but there’s no avoiding him and no escape; I’m heading right for him just after the drop when I’m flying. He slides off of his board, and I jump over him. It’s ugly. From shore this must look horrible. Even though there’s the rest of the set approaching, I resurface and ask him if he’s all right.

     “Sorry,” he says, as he remounts his board.

     “But are you okay?”

     “Yeah, I’m all right.”

     “All right.”

     I’m embarrassed, but . . . I’m not sure if I should be. I think it’s no one’s fault. He was in a bad place; I was in a crucial spot. Oh well. I paddle to the top of the wave to escape the negative energy.

     I’m surrounded by Longboarders, there’s no way I’m competing with them. I move all the way to north Churches where the lefts break, but there are already two guys sitting there. They give me a scowl. I know what they’re thinking. They’ve been getting this spot to themselves, and here I am invading their territory. I sit outside of them and catch a left. One of them drops in, sees me behind, and pulls out.

ONCE UPON A TIME AT A BATTLE POSITION:

     I’m sitting in front of the cliffs looking at Lowers. It’s working again, but I’m not going there. No way. There are so many heads, and it doesn’t look like anything’s breaking wide. Oh well. I’m not going back to Churches either. Time to make-do.

     North Middles does have waves though, but they’re walled and not lining up. I’m lucky if I get a turn on them. There are six other guys here all faring the same.

#

     The battle position remains in its crumbled, cobblestone glory. There was a time when this was the spot, right here in front of the BP. There was a time when Middles used to fire giving nice, long rights. Sure, a foot smaller than Lowers, but they were stress free waves without the hassle of dozens. This place used to work.

#

     I paddle towards the BP just as a peak forms on the outside. I turn and go. Popping up, I see a clean, three-foot face before me. I set up a little top-turn and reentry that sets me up for the next section. It stands up providing a clean canvas before the closeout. I climb the face, down-turn, and put as much mustard on the tail as a draw a tight arc. The nose of my board points at nine o’clock, but I fall and don’t recover. Either way, it still feels good, like I did something critical. I didn’t stick it, but I get the sensation of a nice gouge. I need to learn how to layback or at least try it when the section does this.

     Everyone else is gone. There’s a guy with a Magnum P.I. mustache on a red fish. He scratches out and yells, “Fuuuck!”

     I’ve been there. Just then, the sun comes out at full blaze. The clouds disintegrate, and the wind dies. Not only that, but there’s another set on the way.

#

     Could it be the sun or the wind? I have no idea, but Middles has just turned on to three-feet and clean. It might also be from the tide. Right now it’s dropping, and it’s at mid level.

     BP’s usually doesn’t have lefts, but they’re coming in. Over and over on little three-foot faces, I’m pumping down the line, doing soft carves, and paddling back out. Even on the rights, I manage my cleanest top-turns the whole trip. Not violent and gouging turns, but just fluid. All this on the DMS, the board that’s not supposed to work, the board that’s on its last leg and is supposed to be a piece of shit. Ahhhhhh, I love you, my DMS, you, you, reliable motherfucker you.

     I sell the last wave to a couple guys on the shore, and now there are four of us. I see the mustache guy paddle by me. “It turned on didn’t it?” I say.

     “Yeah, it’s real fun right now!”

#

     It’s 1030. I’ve been in the water for four hours. I’m starving, hungry. My stomach hurts on each stroke because it’s so empty. My brother taught me to surf only two hours tops, come out and take a break to snack, and then go back out. He said you make mistakes when you surf tired and create start bad habits. I wouldn’t mind a break, but this window is so good, and I don’t want it to close without me being here.

     The tide drops below mid level, and the surf goes inconsistent again. I walk out exhausted, yelling at the rocks as I flail and stumble. What was a gloomy morning is now a scorching, hot summer day. I peel my wetsuit down to my hips and pass some guys on the path. They are bone dry. They smile, but I don’t smile back. I’m too tired. I’m like a salty veteran returning from the Nam, walking off the C-130 and onto the tarmac for some R&R. These guys, they’re Cherries. For now, my battle’s over.

     I hit that part of the path before the Trestles map. A light breeze hits my face. The bushes rustle all round me. I walk slower and absorb the moment. There’s nothing but the wind in my ears, the dirt, the tracks, and the peeling sound that a welcoming ocean makes. I want to frolic in the bushes. I want to climb the dirt mound and feel the base of the tracks, feeling stones fill and fall from my hands and fingers. It’s my last day here. I’m gonna miss it. 

     After my last shower I put on some deodorant and a clean set of clothes that have been hiding in my duffle bag. It’s the cleanest I’ve felt since I left my house on Thursday morning.

     Sebastian gives me a call before I leave and suggests we meet for lunch. I drive to his house in Mission Viejo. “What do you wanna eat?” he says.

     “I’m so tired of fast food. No Mexican, that’s for sure.”

     “Yeah, I just had Mexican yesterday. . . .”

     “I need rice.”

     He takes me to this spot called Aloha Barbecue by his house. It’s a different country in this part of Orange County. Two old White guys stare at me as I enter. I’m completely beached, browned and well done from the sun’s bidding. My hair is so fuzzy I look like an evil monkey with slanted, red eyes. I order the saimin and chicken katsu plate, expecting that the portions are gonna be small, but there is actually so much that Sebastian helps me eat it all. He leaves some white rice untouched. “You not gonna eat that?” I say. He scoops it up. Never will I let a grain of rice go uneaten. Not on my watch.

     I make the rest of the drive home in one piece. 

#

     It’s Thursday, May 17^th, and I’ve driven my ass all the way to HB in hopes to score. Surfline was off. The south wind is a little strong, knocking down the waves and putting a blanket of chop all over the ocean. My sunglasses tuck my face away in my hooded sweater. I go back to my car, drive out for some breakfast, come back, sleep in the back for an hour, wake up, and take another look. The wind is even worse now. My face is expressionless as I look over the sand and onto the ocean. 

     Walking back to my car, I remember how good it was a couple days ago, to just wake up and have rideable surf right there in front of me. Today I’ll be a dry walker. I didn’t even shower last night because I thought I’d be getting wet. I turn the key and leave the state lot. The itch for another surf trip overcomes me.

      

THE RELEASE PT.9 (double sesh), MON 14MAY2012 EVE

Location: Churches

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-5 FT+, strong onshore, inconsistent, choppy, sunny.

     I wake from my nap at 1630, debating on what to do. I circle around the decision back and forth. I tell myself to start writing, catch the evening session at Lowers, and just watch game 2 on Wednesday. Then I tell myself, enjoy the full experience of being out here. I can both surf and catch the game. The thought of having a cold beer in town while watching Kobe ball on the Thunder does sound appealing. The wind is so strong that it looks like “victory at sea” conditions, but if I want to catch the game, the second session must happen now.

CHURCH BOMBING:

    

     Only few are willing to brave the conditions. Brave or stupid, choose one. I sit at the bottom of the wave with a couple guys. I saw some shoulders here earlier, but the lull is hindering that. Again, I’m at the top of the wave. The bumps rolling through look like they’ll break but they roll past and break on the inside. I expect nothing on this session. This paddle out is more so I don’t hate myself later for not paddling out. Just when I think that things are going dead, my heart drops as I catch the site of the oncoming set over the horizon. It’s a thin crowd. Thin . . . and we’re all fucked. We paddle towards the outside. I duckdive the first. The wind is so strong that it knocks the wave down in a fashion that leaves a long, trailing rapid of white wash. I go under the violent wall that approaches, get washed around, and lose my board. I struggle with the second one as well. I’m still padding as hard as I can, getting close but not close enough. All I can do is watch the waves build and prepare for darkness. By the fifth duckdive I’m worn out. One more wave, and I’m panting on the outside, sitting by myself. Everyone else is taking their last beatings. It’s funny how things look so dismal from the shore, but it’s a whole other story in the lineup. I learn my lesson: patiently wait on the outside for the set.

     Unfortunately, the sections are too long, so the waves don’t line up all the way to the inside like they should during aclassic Churches’ day, but still, the drops are fast and good enough for a couple turns. Regardless, I kick-out before the rides end because the paddle is far.

     I can’t remember any significant rides. I go left on some waves that are short lived. The rights are better, but this whole trip hasn’t had carves in abundance. At 1800, I head in to clean up for the game.

I had a hard time catching the sets for the pics, but there's a surfer going right for a sense of scale.

There's a longboarder about to hit the lip if you look closely.

     Someone in Camp Pendleton told me to go to Humphrey’s Sandwiches in San Clemente because they have TVs, and it’s mellow. I drive there and order the prime rib sandwich which is fucking delicious. I’m the only one in there. The two young guys that work there look like male models or the wolf guys from Twilight, but they’re cool as fuck. The manager there is smoking hot. She has long, curly brown hair tied into a pony tail. She bends over, moving stuff from the cabinets. Her butt is so round in her black, stretchy pants. Every time she turns around, I turn back to the game without getting caught. Only if she knew that every guy is a pervert. At least I am, and you . . . you sitting at home reading this. You too are sick.  

     The place shuts down at 2000, so I call my buddy Sebastian, who suggests that I go to Dukes to watch the rest of the game. It’s an empty night, and the bartender is a petite brunette with gigantic boobs. When it’s obvious that the Lakers are gonna get blown out, I head to Jack in the Box for churros, chicken nuggets, and a java shake. I’m not even hungry, but I like to eat crap when I drink. I can’t help it. Somehow, alcohol = junkfood.

     Back at the beach, I force myself to eat everything. I go to sleep buzzed and full. Fuckin’ Lakers. . . .

THE RELEASE PT.8, MON 14MAY2012 MOR

Location: Churches to Middles

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 5 FT+, glassy, clean, inconsistent, sunny, warm.

     My breath smells like rotten pizza, so I walk to the bathrooms and brush my teeth before I start my morning. I drive back to my favorite spot under the tree in front of Churches. It’s just past 0500, and the ocean is so dark that I can’t tell if it’s good or not. I open the box and eat the last slice and then gulp some water down. Even though it’s only sixty degrees, it feels colder. As the sky to the east turns light blue, I see the first signs of life from the ocean. The water is glassy and smooth. There’s something desolate in its appearance. It’s Monday . . . there shouldn’t be a crowd.

     There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I begin to suit up as the sun peaks over the horizon. I hear white-noise from the inside while I change behind the car. I walk around and see the first set break. The right-hand peak at the middle of the wave is peeling, as well as the southern-most peak at the bottom, both unridden. Three longboarders start to paddle and head to the top. I lock the car and warm up.

#

     Whenever I paddle out at Churches, I start at the bottom of the wave and work my way to the top. Also, it’s easier to paddle out from there. The San Onofre state parking lot starts to fill, and I can see longboarders making their trek in the distance.

     Nothing breaks at the bottom of the wave. Actually, it seems that nothing is breaking at all. Longboarders are even scratching out at the middle of the wave. I make a gradual approach until I’m all the way at the top amongst a small group of dawn patrollers. Upon seeing that first set of the morning, I had text’d Rick, Francis, and Klaude that it was “firing.” I wonder how accurate that is now, as nothing’s breaking. A small bump approaches, concealing the horizon as it moves through. As soon as it passes, a monster bump appears on the outside. Oh fuck. Our group turns into a clusterfuck of paddling and clamoring. Everyone’s caught by surprise. I duck dive the first, second, and third wave. Still, the waves are coming. I put myself in position for the last five-foot wave. It’s big, but it’s fat and mooshy, but the drop is still fast. Instead of carving off the top, I pump, trying to get some distance on the ride, but the wave doesn’t line up, and I top-turn under the lip before it closes.

     When I resurface to paddle back, no one’s at the lineup. Everyone’s scattered, and fighting through the whitewash on the inside. This is a good sign. It’s not gonna be a flat day.

    

     Even though there are some juicy sets, they are a bit inconsistent. What I don’t like about inconsistent days is that they allow every surfer to get into position. No one catches waves and everyone waits in place. But when the waves are consistent, they shift everyone. I love those days.

     I try to predict the sets, and paddle towards the outside after every hump, hoping to see monsters on the horizon. My predictions are off most of the time. Sitting in the lineup almost becomes a game of who’s psychic and who’s not. On the next crawl to the outside, a random wall starts to build. I know I have it. I crept to the outside in the most unsuspecting manner possible. It’s a clean peak with a smooth, glassy face. Those on the inside watch as I slide down, but the wave’s a little soft, not meant for nasty hacks off the lip. Still, I try, turning but making sure I don’t go over the top on accident. I pump, trim, walk the nose, and fall on the spin.

#

     There are some set waves that have more punch. I manage to get one good turn off the lip before a wave closes, but I can’t tell if I get spray or not.

     The morning’s weird: long, impatient lulls which bring you to the verge of paddling in, and then a five-to-six wave set that breaks far on the outside. So many of us are caught by them. On the inside, two chicks are getting pounded. A younger one on a short board turtle dives under a roaring wall of white. After a couple seconds, her board gets spat out from the top. An older longboarder chick next to her completely ditches her board. She slides off, pinches her nose, and dives straight under. I’m thinking how dangerous this is for the both of them, especially because they’re so close. Even though the shortboarder’s hot, I paddle by her without even looking. I’m turned off by her inability to punch through and for her failure to at least attempt to do it right. You don’t turtle dive a shortboard. . . .

     Back at the lineup, the sea calms. The shortboarder chick is back on the shore, going home defeated. The morning crowd thickens, so I decide to paddle towards Lowers.

     I’m just outside of Churches and entering Middles when I get caught too deep for a peak. Surprised, I paddle outside to get one of the set waves. I haven’t surfed Middles in a while, and I’m surprised that something’s breaking here. It’s my first left of the morning that’s a good four-feet. As it meets another section to closeout, I bottom turn and carve the face before the lip comes down. I fall after the carve. I know in my heart that this should be a layback snap. I need to learn how to come out of these.

     I’m thinking that Middles has turned on, but another lull hits, so I head straight to Lowers.

#

     I expected a thin crowd for Monday, but it’s the most crowded I’ve seen Lowers since Thursday. The top of Lowers is working like a machine. Set waves are coming in at five-feet. Even the inside of Lowers is consistent, but there are so many goddam surfers. The lineup is colorful with red, pink, and green wetsuits. Nothing is breaking wide. It’s all one big A-frame. Anything breaking wide is an illusion with already someone on it from the top. I stop my headcount at thirty-eight because people are still filing in. I sit wide and eventually sit closer to the main pack, but it’s too competitive. It’s the biggest mistake of the trip; I catch nothing here. I tuck my tail between my legs and head back to the cliffs north of Middles. There are some waves here, but they aren’t lined-up as nice. Most of them are long, racy peaks without faces to work with. It’s 1000, it’s sunny, and I’m burning up in my wetsuit. I’ve surfed for four hours; I’m starving. 

#

     Walking back to the wagon, I see a set working at Churches. I should’ve stayed there. Yeah, the lulls were long, but it was still working when I left. Bad move. The conditions are still clean. I grab my phone and snap a picture in front of the wagon. The lowering tide took away some of the size, but it still looks fun.

     

     After I clean up, I head to La Tiendita for some Mexican food. I order the machaca plate which is only $5.95 and a horchata. It’s a lot of food for a good price.

     Back at the wagon, I have another decision to make. Tonight’s game 1 of the Lakers versus Thunder series. 

     “You can’t miss game 1,” is what Klaude said last night. “It’s gonna be epic.”

     I debate on pulling an evening session at Lowers or catching the game. Under my favorite spot under the tree, I crack the windows and lie down for a nap. Full and exhausted, I fall asleep.