TINY CHURCH, SAT 26MAY2012 EVE

Crew: Rick and Canales

Time: ?

Conditions: 1-2 FT with occasional 3, inconsistent, uncrowded, warm, glassy, clean.

     It rained last night. It rained fuckin’ hard. Thank God the Coleman Insta-Tent that I spent $160 on did what it was supposed to do and kept us dry.

     

  By 0730 everyone is up, and after we’re done cooking breakfast, Rastaetter says his goodbyes and heads back to Oxnard. 

     To kill some time since the surf is dismal, I take the boys on a hike to the trail that leads up and behind Lowers. I’ve never made this hike before, so it’s a first time for everyone. We throw a twelve pack in my bag and head out.

     

 We find ourselves in front of Middles where some little kids have a water cameraman for the day. Alhough the surf is only two-feet, it looks fun. Even though Avelar, Castillo, and Canales have never surfed before, they’re content with seeing the far-fetched coastline that they only get to see every so often. The Tecates go down smooth, and we sit here for an hour with hot sand under our asses. 

     Once we get back to camp, Rick shows up. For those that don’t know, Rick was everyone’s section sergeant at one point or another. Everyone’s happy to see him. He says that he stopped by Churches and Lowers and that it looked small, so we polish off more food, grab some beer, and head towards the Hoedad shacks by Old Mans. I’m glad he’s here to help mix up the energy, as I can only do so much to keep everyone entertained, and he’s so longwinded with things to say that it ensures there’s never a quiet moment. 

Rule number one . . . never fall asleep around scouts.

     Once Avelar and Castillo leave, Rick gets the itch to paddle out at Churches.

     We grab six beers to make sure that Canales won’t be bored then he says, “I wanna paddle out too.”

     I look at him. “You don’t have a wetsuit.” The years haven’t been kind to his stomach. Right now he’s boarder-line stage-three beer gut. “Maybe Rick has an extra one.”

     He forces himself into Rick’s spring suit, but some things make it obvious that it’s too tight.

     I suggest that he let me show him a couple pointers, but the alcohol has him. He’s been drinking all day. He says, “No, just go, go!” He takes another sip and points to the horizon. “Go do your own thing. I got it.”

     Rick and I sit at the top of the wave at Churches, watching Canales flounder on the Zippy fish. “He gonna be all right?” says Rick.

     It’s a perfect evening save for any swell. We exchange little two-foot rides going right. All trimming, walking the nose—no turns. Rick sneaks away without telling me. I look back. Both he and Canales are gone.

     A little three foot bumps pops out the back. I catch it, the wave doubles up, and I slide into the second wave towards the inside, cranking one backhand turn before it closes. It’s the best wave of the camping trip thus far. I wonder if anyone saw it, but the three longboarders who paddle out serve as an answer to my question. I keep looking back though because I’m worried. Is Canales okay? Did he get hurt? Is Rick okay? Did he take his injections? I get another random three-footer out the back, getting another back-hand snap before going in.

     I’m walking around trying to find these assholes, and then I see them up the street. When they’re close enough, Rick says, “We were in the shower together.” They’re smiling, each with a beer in his hand.

     Assoles, I’m thinking. They left me out of the post-surf beershower ritual.

#

     I accept that this isn’t a weekend for surf, especially with the lack of swell. I remain grateful for my friends who showed up and for my friends who are here.

     Rick turns in early, Canales decides to sleep in his car, and I hang out by the bonfire by my lonesome, enjoying the night, and thinking about what it means to be alive.

FUZZY, FRI 25MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: ?

Conditions: 4-5 FT, semi consistent, uncrowded, warm.

     This entry is titled fuzzy because I’m so behind on my blogs that I can’t fucking remember shit. This is terrible. Just school and work lately have been taking up most of my time. Here’s what I can recall:

#

     It’s the day of my military reunion camping trip at San Onofre. I should be there right now, getting my usual pre-camping surf session at Trestles before I set up the tent, but the surf down south is dismal. I reserved the sites over two weeks in advance, and the surf this weekend is small. Not only is there no south swell, but there is wind and rain forecasted somewhere in there too. Well, like a captain goes down with his ship, I stand by my decision, never succumbing to a faltering thought of cancelling. After all, I haven’t seen most of these guys in over ten years.

     Local is the call. Why? Because the surf local has been surprisingly decent. As much as I’ve written off the South Bay before, I’ve had nothing but good sessions this week. The plan . . . is to surf at 26^th St. and then head down south.

#

     The only reason I might be more consistent that Francis is because I’m a bum. He has a full time job on top of school, and also shares his time with his woman. Despite the everyday commitments that beckon him, he has surfed with me the most out of all of my friends since I met him over a year ago.

     And . . . this is where things get fuzzy. The surf is similar to the days before, but something happens around nine o’clock where people just leave. The wind’s a little onshore, and it’s choppy, but it’s still rideable, and sets are still coming out the back. Only five people share the peak in front of 26^th. One of them is a chick riding a twin-fin fish. I paddle up and talk to her, but I can’t remember her name for the life of me. I think it’s Erin, and she’s from Lawndale. She says she just got back from visiting Maui, so we hit it off right away. What I’m most compelled by is that it’s a brutal session. It’s not small, the inside is consistent, and it’s hard enough to keep the crowd extra thin. And yet, there’s a chick out here, riding a twin-fin fish. I’m not saying that females can’t shred, but I only know one that does: super grom ripper extraordinaire Jordan. My other female surf buddies wouldn’t even be able to make it to the lineup today.

     I can’t remember any significant rides, but I do catch a handful of rights and left, good enough to call it “single shot city.” Francis leaves, but I hang out to talk to the chick a little longer, meeting Francis at my house later.

Locked and loaded

Carne asada tacos. So simple . . .  and tasty!

 

#

     Only a small handful of my old battle buddies from my old scout platoon showed up, and even though I’ve seen most of them within the last couple years, it was the first time they had seen each other in over a decade.

     Once we were done eating tacos, we surrounded the bonfire and lit some cigars that Castillo was nice enough to buy at the PX earlier that day. With the light San Onofre breeze pushing against our faces, we stretched out our fingers near the fire pit, smoked, drank, and talked shit about the guys not there.

     “Where the fuck is Cabrera?” asked Canales.

     “Well, I tried,” I said. “He said he was coming today. No answer.” I leaned over with a log, repositioning the fallen tepee.

     Castillo turned to Rastaetter and said, “Remember Neubauer? I wonder what happened to him.” He turned back towards the fire, still holding his boyish smile, the same familiar one he wore in Utah when he was beardless and still had a head full of hair.

     The wind seemed to stop, and I felt the silence creep up the back of my neck. I knew what would happen next.

     “Didn’t you hear, Craig?” said Rastaetter.

     Castillo released his grin and returned a blank stare. “No,” he said.

     “IED. He was killed in Iraq.”

     The fire crackled on, releasing small sparks into the light plume of gray smoke. Silence followed.

     “Are you serious?” Said Castillo.

     “Yeah,” said Rastaetter.

     All of our heads lowered without a word. Even though we were all staring into the fire, we all saw something different. 

A.I. BOARDSHORTS, THU 24MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: 0845-1045

Conditions: 4-5 FT, semi consistent, crowded, cold.

     Yesterday was hot. In fact, I was fucking burning in my wetsuit. I debate on trunking-it for the first time this year.

     The tidal window’s a little weird this morning, so I head out a little late. When I park, I can see some lines coming in; it looks fun. Even though the sun isn’t blazing this morning, my intuition tells me that the water’s warm. I didn’t grab my boardshorts, but I check the spare tire compartment and find my emergency boardshorts and rashguard.

#

     Here I am. I’m tired and yawning in my Billabong A.I. boardshorts. There are only two other guys in shorts, and one of them is an SUP guy. I have my red rashguard on, the one I’ve had since I was a barney and the one I wore in Bali. With my DMS under my left arm I approach the water, thinking that this could be an epic session.

     My calves go cold first, but it’s bearable. Once I’m on my belly paddling out, cool water starts to creep up my back. A wave comes. I duckdive. HOLY FUCKING, CHRIST! My body’s electrified with cold energy. If I was asleep earlier, I’m motherfuckin’ wide awake now. I’m so cold that my arms cut through the water like chopper blades; I’m fast. The morning jolt sends me to the middle of the pack. Within the first couple minutes a set approaches. An Asian guy on my inside scratches but pulls out. I already have momentum. I paddle and kick with an unbound sense of freedom that I haven’t had in a while. There’s no restriction around my shoulders or back muscles. My feet feel weightless in the air as they recoil for the kicks. I pop up, staring down the line of a fast, marbley left. Sliding down the face, the wind makes my sleeves flap. To think I surfed liked this for a month in Bali.

     I get a deep bottom turn, come up the face, and get a nice, little top-turn off the lip. I pump and set up for a second one before the ride ends. The cold is nothing but a memory. I’m exuberant, paddling back to the lineup with a purpose. Back in the pack I feel confident in my trunks. Suckers, I’m thinking. Pussies . . . all in their wetsuits. It ain’t that cold.

     Again, another wave. Even though it’s crowded, I’m on another one. A guy watches me as he paddles over the shoulder. I check turn off the lip and reenter right in front of him. I feel so loose and light. I get my second turn on the inside section, putting these A.I. shorts to work!

#

     Fuck my ass, why the fuck is it so cold now? I look at my watch. It’s only been a half an hour. Everyone’s calm in their wetsuits, bobbing in place and waiting for the sets. While I, I’m paddling to the left and right and through the pack, moving just to stay warm. Cool as cucumbers, the wetsuits don’t move. I envy them. I’m an idiot.

#

     After that second wave, my luck runs out. My teeth are chattering so hard that I wonder if I’m wearing them down. I paddle all the way to 30^th St. and back to 26^th, just to keep the blood flowing. Every time I have a wave, someone is on it. I look like I’m aggressive, trying to go for everything, but I’m just plain freezing.

     Back at 26^th, I finally run into Francis. I tell him about my debacle. He laughs. The crowd thins out, and just like yesterday the waves start to turn on for us. We have it good for the next hour, sharing the spot with one guy, but the wind turns on, and even though it’s juicy it’s getting choppy.

     I tell Francis I can’t take it anymore and head back in. Even though the boardshorts were a bad call, I still got in a solid two hours, but I think I’ll keep the wetsuit around a little bit longer.