AT LEAST IT’S OFFSHORE, SUN 21OCT2012 MOR

Crew: Khang, KK, and Mellie-Mel

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, walled with occasional shoulders, overcast, semi crowded.

     I stayed up until 0100 doing homework. I was so tired that I had a hard time sleeping. My mind was asleep but my body was awake. Caught in a bed-press, I couldn’t shake myself out of a terrible nightmare: I was forced to accompany three people in a car to kill someone in his home. It was pitch-black dark. I was told if I left the vehicle I’d be shot. As soon as the gunshots started, I bolted out of the vehicle, but I was so slow and sluggish in my tracks. I woke up when I was discovered.

     After that I had some stress dreams, where I was surfing in my hometown of Napili, but I couldn’t remember all the facts for my blog. I spent the rest of the night in and out of sleep, pondering over the details: what happened first? how many waves did I get? who was I surfing with?

SNOOZE:

     My alarm was set for 0600, but I slap that snooze tab until 0700. “I need to get up,” I say to myself. I drink some Carnation Instant Breakfast, grab my gear, avoid Smokey’s dog shit that he had laid all over the driveway, and head to the 405N where I’ll exit Rosecrans. Once I’m on Highland Ave., I see some flags blowing offshore, slightly from the south.

     I curse the fact that there’s no free parking. And then again . . . I curse myself because I should’ve gotten up early enough for free parking. The ocean doesn’t seem to be doing much. The waves are breaking a little close to shore and it’s overcast, but the surface conditions look clean with just a little offshore ripple. I spot Khang in the upper lot. I honk, he waves, and I circle around once more for free parking. Nada.

THREE:

     I park next to Khang, step out, and give him a hug. He has a huge booger hanging out of his nose. I give him my undivided attention while he speaks, but I really just want to reach in there and snatch it out. I figure we’ve known each other that long, but it’s one of those slimy, sticky boogers, where it’s not really hard; it’s just gooey. Even though I’m about to paddle out, I’d rather not deal with his manhesive on my fingers.

     I grab the Tokoro, and we head to the water to look for Klaude. I’m ashamed to write the entire transcript of the Barney conversation that Khang and I have on the way to the sand, but we talk about our goals for this winter. “I talked to my homeboy Sans,” says Khang. “You gotta surf reckless if you want to get barreled, you gotta surf out of your comfort zone.”

#

     Khang spots Klaude first, and then we both make our way out towards him.

     Klaude introduces us to this chick named Jayme who’s riding a purple fish. She’s not bad looking: tan; long, dark brown hair; she’s maybe a little older.

     It’s a gorgeous silver scene. There’s no sun, but in between the thick, gray clouds are thinner ones, even some patches of blue. The filtered light gives the water a bluish-gray tint, reflecting shiny, rough cut gems in the ocean’s surface. The water’s cool but not cold, and the offshore breeze gives the feeling of fall before the winter numbness freezes our balls in the months to come. It doesn’t feel like winter, but it definitely feels like Thanksgiving.

     “Khang, you remember last Thanksgiving?” I ask.

     He smiles and says, “Pff! Hell yeah.”

     “It was raining.”

     “Yeah, and we were like,” he holds out his hands, “what the fuck?”

     Indeed, last Thanksgiving was . . . I hate to throw this term around loosely, but it was pretty epic. I mean, torrential rain, five-foot swell, consistent, crowded but enough rides for everyone, and the whole DRC was out, even Rick and his WHC boys. I surfed until the sun came out and the wind changed. ::sigh:: Memories.

    

RECKLESS:

     It’s a little inconsistent this morning, and even though it’s not super crowded, there are more surfers than there are waves. KK gets a wave that gives him some good distance, pumping all the way down the line. Khang catches a wave, jumping over the lip before it closes out. They’re breaking close to shore.

     Jayme on her purple fish is clowning us all. She makes the initial section and gets ahead to the open face, gliding down the line, cool as a cucumber. Good for her.

     On the walled sets, we all paddle for them. Fuck it, why not. Most of the waves are walled, and getting a good shoulder isn’t easy this morning. I go for a dump rider special, holding the highline and seeing the lip throw over me in barely a second—a fun wipeout.

WQS:

     Khang paddles for a wave, but some other guy is scratching hard, as if catching the wave depends on his life. For a morning like this, I don’t know if putting off that kind of energy is worth it. They guy gets the wave and Khang is left behind. When I paddle up to him he says, “Fuck, I didn’t know this was the fuckin’ QS and shit.”

     That guy’s in a red and gray wetsuit. Even though the three of us struggle to get good rides, QS and one of his buddies are fucking ripping. Khang and I talk about board volume, wondering how much board selection tailored for Manhattan Beach make a difference. At the same time I look at myself. Am I not the fault of my own lack of performance, not just my board?

     Further south there’s some guy busting airs. He does a three-sixty and lands it. I used to ponder the thought of busting an air myself at the sight of such feats, but realistically . . . I’m happy if I can get good carves and cutbacks going both ways. Yes, this is the truth, this is where my surfing is right now.

     I’m in position for a right, but Jayme’s on my inside. I back out. The QS guy goes for it. Jayme gives him a glare, and he backs off. The QS guys’ buddies give him shit about letting a girl take a wave that he could’ve snaked her on. I’m actually a little offended hearing this. How greedy can you be? It was Jayme’s wave all the way.

     I get a left that has some size, but some other fucking guy drops in on me. He’s one of the local regulars. His face doesn’t strike me as familiar, but he’s dark as I am and looks like he’s from the islands, so he fits the 26^th St. profile. When the ride ends, I make sure we get eye contact on the inside to let him know: you fucked me.

#

     I hump it back up the hill to put some change in the meter, meeting Khang half way back. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I got you.”

     It’s nice surfing with Khang. I haven’t surfed with him in over two weeks. We catch up on everything. He has family who just moved here; he’s looking for a new place; and he’s not allowed to fraternize with his coworkers.

     We paddle out next to Roy in front of the tower. I see KK to our north surfing with Melanie. I’d wave him down, but he’s blind as a gimp with an open-mouth hood. On the next wave, Khang and I split the peak. I go right and look up from the base of the wave. I bottom turn and try to hit the lip, but get pitched. It was too critical but still fun. At the lineup, Khang tells me he got a couple pumps.

     I get another right, this time tagging the lip, backhand, before it closes out.

     I paddle over to Klaude because he has that look on his face that says he’s going to leave soon. We chat it up with Mellie-Mel too.

     A bomb set comes, about four-feet and dumpy. I’m a little deep so I pull out, but Khang paddles into it. I expect him to wash up somewhere on shore, but he somehow jumps over the back of the wave. He gets the next bomb again, it’s another wave that I pull out on.

     The guy that snaked me earlier is on my inside while I’m paddling for a right. Wave-justice says I have the right to snake him, but I don’t. I see him catch a nice shoulder all the way to the inside, falling on his finishing maneuver, still getting some spray.

     “Daaaaamn,” says Khang, “that wave you almost had was sick!”

     “Yeah, that was the guy I was talking about who snaked me earlier.”

     “Oh . . . sorry to bring back bad memories.”

#

     Klaude and Mel scrape for their last waves, but nothing good is rolling through. They both catch a wave close to shore and wave goodbye.

     I look at my watch. “Hey, we gotta catch one in too,” I say to Khang.

     Right at that moment, a fuckin’ bump starts to form. This is it, my one ticket out. I lower my chin, kick, and paddle as hard as I can. I gotta catch this one. When I pop up, I see that the sub three-foot wave is actually lining up. I know it’s a single shot / one hitter quitter, so I get two pumps, climb the face, and get a nice, arcing carve. I reenter, pump, and skim over the whitewash from the depleted wave.

     We all shoot for that “last one,” the exclamation point for the session. We usually don’t get it and settle for whatever pushes us to shore, but this morning . . . my last one was good.

#

     Back at the car, I realize I forgot my towel. Klaude lets me use his. I’m careful not to pat down my penis too hard with it since it’s not mine. We say our goodbyes and plan to meet up again next weekend.

ANOTHER GAMBLE, SAT 20OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 3 FT, overcast, drizzling, onshore, choppy, manageable peaks.

Pre-Blog:

     Khang called me yesterday, telling me how I missed out on Wednesday. According to him, the South Bay was “all time” that day. He said he surfed in the morning and evening and that the peaks were just going off. It made me sad to hear this. I knew it was good. I asked where he was surfing on Saturday, and he said he had to surf local because of work.

     According to the forecast, El Porto isn’t supposed to be good. In actuality, nowhere is supposed to be good. There is a chance of rain with inevitable onshore flow in the forecast, but the South Bay is predicted to be 1-2 FT while North OC supposed to be 2-3. I know it’s just a matter of “one foot,” but I’m hoping that the forecast will be off. Besides, it was off yesterday, and today can be another exception. I put out the word that I’m traveling down south, but everyone has to stay local.

DARKNESS:

     It’s 0530 when my alarm goes off, but I snooze until 0556. Since I have everything prepacked, all I need to do is fill up my hot water jugs. I grab both of my thrusters, pat Smokey on the head, and jump in the surfmobile.

     When I glance at the clock on the instrument panel, I see that it’s already 0645, but looking outside, it’s hard to tell that this is the early morning. Combined with the overcast and the shorter days as we near the winter solstice, it’s hard to imagine that there used to be light out at this time.

     Once I hit Torrance, rain drops start hitting my windshield. It’s sporadic, off and on, mostly on the light side. Despite the rain, from what I can tell, there isn’t much wind yet. As I drive down Bolsa Ave., I’m thinking that I might score. The wind report is off again, and I’m hoping for at least a solid hour before the conditions change. I look to a building on the left hand side of the road. It has an American flag mounted at the top floor . . . and the stars and stripes are blowing hard onshore.

     Driving past Bolsa Chica, my fears are confirmed. The RVs parked in the lot all have flags indicating the wind. I look right to see what the waves are doing. Bolsa Chica is small. Dog Beach doesn’t look much better, but Magnolia has some peaks. My optimism comes back when I see Huntington Pier. The water doesn’t look that choppy yet, so there’s a chance that things aren’t totally blown out.

     I pull up to my parking spot and head towards the sand for a look. I see an old guy who was leaving when Bri and I showed up yesterday. “Paddling out?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Looks like it!”

     There’s another guy on the sand watching it. As soon as I’m close enough to see the waves, he leaves. Being alone, I whip out my wiener and piss right there on the spot. As usual, there are a couple guys to my north, three guys to my south, and then a small crowd at River Jetties. A set rolls in. It's three-feet plus but walled. Even the shoulders at the end are breaking section-into-section. I wait it out a little longer, hoping to see at least one random peak like yesterday. Compared to yesterday, the waves are a hair smaller and the water is much choppier. I debate on calling Klaude to see if I can get a report from him. Maybe I should just head back local. Right then, one of the guys just south of me catches a left. He gets one turn before the wave closes out. Sold!

#

     There’s no debate on what to wear this morning; it’s wetsuit all the way. I glance at the sky to see if the sun has a chance at peeking out, but the overcast is too thick. It’s already looking like it’s gonna be a gloomy day. I imagine what my brother would do if he saw this choppy, onshore, overcast sight. He’d say, “Damn,” shiver in his sweater, give a look of disdain, turn around, and go home. But fuck it. I can only hope for the best. Sometimes the conditions look better in the ocean.

     I have a spot all to myself. The old-timer from the parking lot and his two buddies are a little off to my left. No one is to my right. There’s that peak just north of River Jetties that looks like it’s working, but I know it’s gonna get packed soon, so I try to see if I can score where I’m at in No Man’s Land.

     I’m caught in a lull, wondering if I should venture south, but I don’t want to get too close to those other guys next to me. From experience, a set will come by the time I make it there, and I’ll be competing with the very guys that have been sitting and waiting well before me. Patience. The wind isn’t a factor in the lineup. On the shore I felt the gusts against my face, but right now . . . the wind seems to have backed off a bit. The water’s choppy but still manageable. All I need . . . is a wave.

     When the set comes it’s walled. There’s a shoulder at the end, but I’m too deep for it. Then like a miracle, a classic HB peak sprouts up. Since the swell is smaller today, it’s no more than three feet, but still, I have to appreciate this. Even with the wind, chop, and weather suitable for a suicide, the sand bars are still working. This little peak is pushing through the agents of skunk, still forming, still breaking. I pop-up going left. The wind is still knocking it down fast, but I have some face to work with. I get caught behind the section, and by the time I get to the shoulder the ride is over, but I’m not bummed. There’s potential.

     The first hour’s pretty consistent. There aren’t many lulls, and I’m not stagnant for long between waves. The shape is still messy, but there are lefts to be had. They’re racy, but I pop-up fast and make it to the open faces. The rides are short, but they’re single shots, good for finishing turns or maneuvers if you’ve got them. I take a look towards River Jetties, and that peak to the north of it is now crowded with at least ten people. Good, good for them . . . just don’t come over here.

     I take advantage of the oncoming sections, climbing the face of the shoulders approaching, floating on the lips, maintaining my balance as they crash, riding them out. No, these aren’t legit floaters, but I’m just stoked to not eat shit on them. Back in the day, I wouldn’t even try doing this.

     The rest of my waves are series of pumps followed by fun, single-shot turns to finish the rides. It’s hard to put English on my finishing carves because the waves aren’t clean (and because I’m a novice), but even though my turns don’t wrap around, I still get enough arc to make it fun. I get one turn on the Tokoro where I sink my weight down into the turn and pivot sharply off of the tail. The end section is only two-feet, but I throw-out a little toss of water. There’s just something about the Tokoro; it’s such a good board, fun to turn; I love it.

     To my surprise, I get the break to myself, and the consistent, random peaks make the trek to HB worth it.

     Things slow down into the second hour, and waves within my last twenty minutes are hard to come by. The wind picks up again, making the water choppier. It’s messing with the shape even more. I wonder how the scene must look from the shore. No one would want to paddle out now.

#

     When I’m done changing it’s exactly 0905. My engine’s running. I want to call Klaude and ask him how local was, but I don’t bother. I contemplate breakfast when I’m on the freeway, but I don’t want to eat alone. Just then, Klaude texts me. He says it was 2-3 FT on the face, and it’s still offshore. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. Looks like I missed out on a good day for a local sesh, but I don’t regret anything. I still had fun on the HB gamble. 

     We meet in El Segundo and kaukau at The Blue Butterfly. I spot him for breakfast since he and his dad hooked me up with some Ahi Poki on Monday night. This breakfast meeting was meant to be because a woman that he hasn’t seen in ten years recognizes him and gets his number. She’s wearing a tight blue skirt, naughty for a cold, wet day. Even though we didn’t surf together, we still get to enjoy each other’s company. 

     The sky is overcast here too with a light sheet of moisture in the air. We sit at a table outside and hover over our bagels, stoked on the surf that nature provides.

Empty?

DESPITE THE FORECAST, FRI 19OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Bri

Time: 0845-1030

Conditions: 3 FT, sunny, warm, empty, onshore, walled with some random peaks.

     Klaude texted me last night, saying that he got the day off and would be surfing local. I lay in bed, switching the forecasts between El Porto and Southside Huntington Pier. I even go on magicseaweed.com to compare the wind forecast. HB will have more wind but the South Bay will be smaller. What to do?

#

     Briana has work today, so a Staycation Friday is out of the question. Klaude calls. He says he’s at Porto, but it doesn’t look too good so he’s on his way to 26^th. I tell him that I’m debating on Huntington or local.

     “Surf local” he says. “Save the drive.”

     I contemplate. . . . I never get to surf with KK during the week. Sometimes Manhattan Beach is good, despite the reports.

#

     Bri and I load everything up. I keep the NSP longboard inside the wagon because I don’t feel like messing with the surf straps; we ride taxi-cab-confessions style. I spot Klaude’s van at the metered lots and park next to him. Bri and I step out. There’s a lull. Most of the surfers are sitting on the inside. The onshore winds from the cool weather and low-pressure system make for crumbly, textured, and choppy conditions. I see a couple guys catch some short rides. The shape is a little walled with some corners at the end. I’ve waited too long for this day, this morning, this session.

     “I’ll be back,” I tell Briana. “I’m gonna leave KK a message.”

     “You gonna draw a penis on his van?”

     I stop in my tracks and turn around. “You know, I wasn’t even thinking about that. Thanks!”

     As an ode to Fransauce, I lift Klaude’s wipers and draw a dick on his rear window. Bri and I head to Bolsa.

#

     This drive seems long, but at least the traffic’s still light. There are signs of life with surfers in the lot, rinsing off and leaving. We park at tower twenty and go out for a gander. The break in front of the tower isn’t doing much; it’s small. However, it does look better than the South Bay; there’s shape. To our north there is a large crowd of longboarders, even though the surf is small. Bolsa Chica to our south has just as many people. “Let’s go to Huntington,” I say. “It should be a little bit bigger.”

     Walking back to the car, Bri says, “I’m glad you think that I can handle harder conditions than this.”

#

     Two guys are leaving the lot when Bri and I pull up, but some surfers are making their way out towards the river jetties on the sand. It’s already a late morning (surf wise), and we are clearly making the window for the second shift. We walk out to the break, and it’s empty. Three guys sit to the north while the rest of the surfers are at the river mouth. The tide’s high, and the waves are a little walled with fast sections towards the end of them. Fuck it. We’re here. I’m not driving back to Bolsa. It’s time to live with our decision.

#

     Even though the air is warm, I throw on my wetsuit. I have the option of using the Zippy of the JS. Given that the tide is rising and the conditions aren’t so great because of the onshores, I pull out the Zippy. I want “guaranteed” rides.

     I pulled a muscle in my upper back after Monday’s session. It’s what I get for not stretching and taking care of my body, probably from my inactivity of having to prioritize studying so much. So as soon as we reach the sand, I take a little more time to warm up. What’s the rush? No one’s out, the waves aren’t that great, the tide’s already coming up, so . . . it is what it is.

     Bri’s never paddled out at Huntington before. I tell her that today’s a small day, but that the waves here still jack up a little fast. I tell her to go for the shoulders if she has to and to try to catch the waves early.

     The paddle out is mistimed, and a set comes in. In the impact zone, I have to duckdive two good-looking waves. Bri paddles up. “Hey,” I say, “There are actually some decent waves here. I’m pretty stoked. I think it’s gonna be fun!”

     The next set is walled, but the in-between waves are peaky and have shoulders on both ends. The onshore wind calms down a little, putting texture on the surface but not taking away from the shape at all. The peak that I surfed on Monday looks good; I have the perfect vantage point to see the peeling, left-hand shoulder. I go left on my first wave. It jacks up to a solid three-feet once it breaks. The Zippy’s so easy. I’ve never surfed it here, only at Bolsa. I’m immediately propelled down the line, and the shoulder is still building, holding. I bottom turn and pull off a sluggish check off the top. I get a couple more pumps before the wave closes out.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I wonder if I’ve made the right choice or not. The waves are a better than what they looked from shore, and I’m sure that my JS would work in these conditions.

     I’m picky. No need to go for the walls. I let them pass. “Go for the ones with the shoulders,” I tell Bri. I catch another left. To reduce the drag, I try to lay back into my turns. I almost fall, but for the first time, my frontside turn on Zippy is a little snappier because of this. It’s not a legit “lay back” snap, but I did do an aggressive, backwards shift with my weight to pull it off.

     Heading back, I see Bri in the perfect spot for a left. “Go!” I yell. She doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t hear me. When I paddle up to her, I want to say that she missed a good one, or I want to question her and ask what happened. But I don’t. I already learned this lesson. She has to figure this out on her own. When I reach her, a solid three-foot peak is approaching her. “Go, go, go!” I say.

     She turns and starts paddling. It’s about to break, but she pulls back. She sees me looking at her.

     “What happened?” I ask. She doesn’t respond. “Fear?”

     “Yeah.”

     “That’s okay.”

     The next one comes, but I don’t call her on it. She turns and paddles. The wave’s only two-feet, but the shape is nice; it’s a right. As soon as the wave has her, she says, “Yes!” and pops up. I watch her from behind. She’s going right, smiling.

#

     The session turns into a wave buffet. The wind turns back on a bit, but the shape is still manageable. My rights aren’t as good. Since HB’s waves are fast, my balance is tested going backhand on the thick Zippy. I barely stick the landing after hitting the lip, usually purling on the down turn. You’d think with the rising tide that things would slow down, but some solid walls start coming in on sets that seem to last forever. I’m even struggling to make it out of the impact zone. Bri’s having a harder time; she’s paying her dues. Even on a small day, HB is much harder than Old Mans, and she’s learning it firsthand.

     The current starts to pick up as well, and we drift north to the next tower. Bri’s a bit apprehensive on paddling-into the waves. I see her pass some up, angle her board too hard when she’s not deep enough, or position herself too deep where the wave is cresting. She hasn’t surfed in weeks, and I can see the frustration on her face. I want to tell her what to do, but again I keep a lid on it. It’s her experience. She just needs more time.

#

     The buffet doesn’t end for me, but I start to get tired. My timing is off on a couple drop-ins. I feel like I’m in a good place to go deep, but the wave breaks right on me. None-the-less, there are still choice rides. Even some walls have makeable shoulders, fast and lined up. There are still peaks in between the walled sets. My expectations are exceeded.  

#

     We’re walking back to the car when Bri says, “I couldn’t read the waves. I think I’m in position, but then they break. They look small but they get so big at the last second. I was scared.”

     “Yeah, it took me a while to get this spot down too.” I tell her that when I take my friends here for the first time, their timing is off too. I tell her about when I first started surfing here with my bro; I would always go too late and eat shit.

     We debate on what to eat. She wants Bob’s Hawaiian, but I recently went there for Sebastian’s birthday. Seafood Town is mentioned, but It’s a little too early for Chinese. “I want waffles,” I say. “And chicken!”

Roscoe's in LB