Loc: 26th
Crew: Solo
Time: 0800-1000
Conditions:
4 FT+, consistent, crowded as hell, clean, glassy, offshore.
What the fuck is wrong with me. I’m late. I’m
always waking up late. I celebrated getting out of class last night by stopping
by Rocks bar in Long Beach since my friend Nikki bartends there. I was
surprised to see how empty the place was, so I stayed longer than anticipated.
Also, since Tuesday is free jukebox night, it was hard to leave since I got to
play all my jams. I played “Back of the Van.”
“Who is this?” asked Nikki, as she turned
from the register with her brows pointed downward.
“Ladyhawke.”
“I’m shazamming you’re music. Where do you
get all this stuff?”
I laughed. “Surf porn. I’m telling you. You
gotta come through for surf porn night.” I stayed until a quarter to one. I
also knew I had to leave because she was looking really good, no longer like someone
who’s “just a friend” should look like. She’s 5’10, tall and built like an
Amazonian, or like those athletic chicks that practice beach volleyball at six
in the morning. It was hard to focus on the TV whenever she turned to face the
register. Her long, black hair stopped just above the waistline of her jeans,
jeans filled to the rim with flesh, pushing out the back pockets but never
overflowing. “I gotta go,” I said. I gave her a hug that was more like a pat on
the back.
#
It’s 0730. I meant to get up earlier. I pop
an Advil for my headache. I check my phone and see that Rick tex’d me: “Going
off at Jetty with a few heads out.” That text was two hours ago. Fuck. . . .
The sun’s already blazing full blast
outside my window. It’s warm out, so I grab my wetsuit jacket and boardshorts;
I’m trunking it today. If it’s good like Rick says it is, there’s no way I’m
going to Porto this morning. I imagine the line of cars going down into the
lot, people double parked waiting for cars to leave, and the different clicks
of surfers within every ten yards. It’s like that scene from The Outsiders when the camera pans
through the drive-in movie theater and you see the Greasers and Socs. No, there’s
no way I’m dealing with that this morning. Maybe at first light but not when
the hive is stirring.
I park at the meters and grab my DMS. Once
I reach the sand I’m the witnessing a beautiful sight. Classic South Bay is the
first thing that comes to mind. The 26th Street tower is working.
Big, peaky A-frames are rolling through, peeling, giving long rides. The
weather’s so clear and sunny that the water’s a dark blue, the way it should be.
The surface of the ocean is pure, unmolested glass, only disrupted by the waves
and the surfers. The surfers . . . it is so
fucking crowded. The main peak is grom central. School’s out, and it’s
obvious. North and south of 26th has a couple empty spots in the
channel. Other than that, the prime take-off spots are littered with people.
I paddle out just south of the tower, next
to other guys that don’t feel like competing. At least it’s warm enough that I’m
not freezing my balls off. The next set comes, and I’ve got side row seats to
the surf show. Fuck that. I need to be in
the show. I paddle closer and sit next to Vietnam Vet Mike. He has a
longboard with the 1st CAV emblem on it.
“It’s fun out here, isn’t it!” he says.
“Yeah, I wish I got here earlier.”
Another surfer chimes in, “Nah, man. You
showed up at the right time.”
Mike signals me for the next set coming my
way. It’s a right. I paddle into it, slide down, but it’s a closeout. I’m in
the impact zone, stuck in roaring white wash. I duckdive and resurface short of
breath. My head hurts. I’m an idiot for letting myself get a hangover on a day
like this.
The set disperses the crowd, so now I’m
sitting outside, just north of Mike. Again, the next set comes. It’s perfect,
A-framing, and I’m right on the peak. I paddle and kick; I’m about to pop up. I
look to my left, and there’s a local grom going for it. He slides down as I
pull out. It’s his wave.
Frustrated, I paddle north next to Bruce
and the older locals. It’s still a competition, but it’s more manageable. I get
my wave of the day which is a juicy right. Because of the size, the drop-in is
fast. I set up for a bottom turn, fighting against the pressure that wants to
keep me squatted and pressed at the base. I climb the face and hit the lip as
it starts to curl. Before, this would feel critical, but I’m pulling more of
these off, so I recover, already thinking about the next turn.
It feels good, satisfying. I paddle back to
the lineup, stoked for one set wave on a crowded day like this.
#
One wave is a straight-up wall, but I go
for it anyway. The wave bottoms-out fast. I almost stick the landing, but the
sudden drop into the flats makes me fall backwards. I’m in a bad spot. I
resurface and see Bruce sliding down on the second wave. I’m without my board
and treading water, waiting to see if he’ll run me over or not. I see the
urgency in his eyes, the quick look down the line to see if he can alter, and
finally the change of direction up and over the lip. Sorry, Bruce.
When my session is over, I notice that my
DMS feels a little heavier than usual.
#
It was a beautiful day for surf and
conditions, but it’s like that Lower’s Syndrome: you can be at a place with
perfect waves, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll be the one surfing them.
There were just too many people out there.
