Loc: El
Porto
Time:
0850-1010
Crew: KK, Randy
& Rick
Conditions:
5 FT+, offshore, walled with occasional big shoulders, crowded.
Ready to get some action on my new surf
board, Randy and I show up to Manhattan Beach. Klaude is already there,
chilling in the parking lot, looking at the surf with Orlando, Robert, and some
other guy who I don’t know. Some of the local veta are out there surfing, but
the waves are walled and lack any shape. Randy and I walk down to the run path
to get a look at Porto, but it looks smaller and has terrible shape as well. On
days like this, PV would be the call, but since I’ve made a lot of the surf
decisions lately, I’m open to different suggestions. Klaude suggests that we
check out Venice.
I rarely surf Venice, but after a short
drive we find ourselves looking at some decent surf. The surf here is much
smaller but has good shape. The only problem is that it’s breaking in one
place, and even though there are only six guys out, it’s enough of a crowd for
the one take-off spot.
We decide to take a look at Hammerland, but
when we get there we can see that it’s not worth it. Klaude decides to go back
to Venice while Randy and I head to Porto.
As we pull into the lot, we see Dave T and
Rick. They’re still in their wetsuits but dripping wet. The trunks of their
cars are open and they’re packing up. We’re both surprised to see each other.
“I had a feeling you were here,” I say. “Where’s
the rest of your crew.”
“They all left,” says Rick.
Apparently, the WHC showed up, but it was
too walled. They left, leaving Rick and Dave to be the only takers. They say it
was walled earlier but that it’s getting better.
Randy and I watch the surf. At first it’s
walled, but then some smaller, inside waves break. A surfer cranks out two
turns and sells it. We start changing, and Rick says, “I’ll paddle out with you
guys.”
Dave goes home, and we leave Rick in the
lot, munching on his little snackie poos so he can refuel. The paddle out isn’t
too bad. I only have to duckdive one wave. Even though we’ve started this session
late and the sun’s out, it’s still cold. We sit . . . we wait . . . and then
the walls come.
Ten minutes later, Randy says, “It’s not as
good as I thought.”
I agree. The shape is inconsistent, but
then, some lines form in the distance with tapered shoulders at the end, giving
some kind of shape. Randy pulls into some waves.
Rick joins us shortly after. “I didn’t even
get my hair wet on the paddle out,” he says.
On the next bomb set, we watch Rick turn
and go on a bomb. He goes . . . while there’s a guy on his inside. Rick snakes
him. But there is also a guy who snakes Rick. They fuck each other. The bomb is
so walled that there is nowhere to go; Rick can’t straighten out, but when they
resurface no hard looks or shouts are exchanged.
On the Motorboat Too, I catch a right. I
notice how the extra volume and low rocker helps get me to my feet sooner than
usual, but I’m riding a wall, so I kick out. Next, Randy and I are paddling for
a left, but I’m way too deep. I wipe out. It should be a gnarly one, but it
happens so fast, and I resurface unscathed enough not to build it up.
When Rick comes back to the lineup, he
says, “You shouldn’t be going so late, especially on a new board.”
#
Two guys are next to us, and we are all
watching the next walled-up bomb that breaks to our north. Guys are on the
shoulder, paddling for it but backing out when they see it’s gonna be a close
out.
“Awwwwwww!” says one of the guys. He turns
to his friend and says, “I know it’s a closeout but go if it’s big.”
His friend nods in agreement.
I’m a bit annoyed at this. I saw the wave.
It was walled. Who are they to judge? The first wave of the set at our spot
comes in. It’s a right, and I’m in perfect position for it. The shoulder is
forming so nice that I know there’s gonna be good shape on it. As I’m paddling
for it, I see the guy with the big mouth, paddling on my outside. As I’m
dropping in I see him look back. He backs out as I climb the face for a top
turn. I shoot out a small bucket of spray where his head just was. My wave
mooshes out on the second turn, so I stall and go over it.
Rick cheers me on when I return, while the
other guys paddle away.
#
Our spot in front of the volley ball nets
becomes crowded, so Randy and I head towards Rosecrans. Unfortunately, we’re in
the saddle of two working peaks. Just north of 33rd, I see the best
wave that I’ve seen at Porto in a while. On another big, set wave, the line is
slightly tapered on the left, but as soon as the wave hits the sand bar, the
lip just starts throwing out. It’s a hollow, six-foot left, and no one is on
it. It stays hollow for a good three-to-four seconds before it clamshells and
turns into a spilling wave.
I can see Rick on the sand. My bro and I go
for our last waves. I can’t say that I scored or even that we made the right
decision compared to Klaude. It was a walled session with a few jewels to be
had.
Back at the lot, Rick is still there. He’s
fully dressed and snacking on some whole-grain crackers. “Here,” he says, as passes
me the Ziploc bag.
I pull one out, halfing the cracker with
Randy. I try to hand it back.
“No,” he says. “Take it. You gotta eat.”
“I’m good, Rick. Thanks.” I set the cracker
down in the back of his van.”
Rick grabs the bag and puts it on my driver’s
seat.
