IN DESPERATION, SAT 05JAN2013 EVE

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1530-1700

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-5FT, high tide, walled, consistent.

     Yesterday, my brother and I did a surf check from Manhattan Beach Pier to El Segundo Beach. Everywhere was closed out. This morning, I checked out Manhattan Beach at first light because the tide was high. Same thing. Conditions like this are a joke. I can recall days when it was so flat, just not enough surf. Day’s when you’d wish for anything with size, even closeouts. I parked in the dark lot at Porto, staring at lines coming in. Swell and size were not an issue, but there was no shape to them. I turned around and went home.

#

     I’m done with my school meeting at 1445. Sitting in my car, I check the surf report on my phone. It says: El Porto 3-5 FT, Fair to Good. The wind report looks good, but best of all, the tide is about to top out. I expect the high tide to soften the walls a little bit and give them some shape. My surf gear is still in the back from this morning. Off to Porto I go.

     Driving down the hill on 45^th Street, I see some lines coming in, but I can’t see the end of them to tell if there are shoulders or not. I give Klaude a call. He says that the morning was walled but that the DRC still came out to play. I keep the conversation short, as the next set coming in is big, but there appears to be some shoulders at the end of these long peaks. I tell Klaude I’ll talk to him later.

     The sun is on its way down, and the scattered cloud cover gives the ocean a light blue, metallic appearance. The waves are still racy, but the shoulders look makeable.

     I’m stoked. I feel the cold evening air on me as I change. The wind is slight onshore, but there still isn’t much texture on the water. This could be a good session. Other surfers are watching it. Some are changing at their cars, the last evening push of surfers begin to rush it, some cars enter the lot, and a biker yells, “Watch it!” to a young lady crossing the beach path. I hope I score.

#

     The inside is really consistent, but I punch through it without burning too much energy. The paddle out is long because of the tide. Once I’m out there, I catch my breath and watch my surroundings. There are surfers from Rosecrans to 45^th, but the crowd is fairly light. Right away, a left comes. Since the tide is high, I catch the wave as it’s spilling. It’s a big, mooshy drop, and I trust that my new board will get me down the line. Then, as I’m sliding down the wave and try to point my nose down the line, I lose balance and fall. When I resurface, I think about how that could’ve been a really good ride. There was some shape to it. As I paddle back to the lineup, I imagine what it would have felt like to pump down the line and get a little carve off the face. It would’ve been nice.

#

     I must have paddled out between windows. The onshore wind grows stronger, finally giving some chop and texture to the surface and also knocking down the waves faster. The tide is going down too, so the shoulders I saw earlier begin to disappear; the walls come in. What a shame . . . it’s consistent but with nowhere to go. Every other surfer is going for the fuck of it, hoping that something will open, but upon popping up, the supposed shoulder stands and shuts down. Every once in a while there’s a little bit of shape, but it’s like a lotto drawing, and most of us don’t have the winning number. On every wall, there seems to be a shoulder somewhere all the way at the end, somewhere where . . . I am not, nor are any of the other surfers.

     The current is strong, sucking all of us south. I fight the current to stay between 45^th and 42^nd. I think about all the other things I could have been doing. I could have been at home finishing my surf blogs, finally catching up. I could have been doing anything productive, anything except waiting for the wave that will never come.

     Miraculously, I get an inside wave that’s about three feet; only the small ones have shape. I get one little check turn off of the lip. That’s it. The whole session. That’s my wave of the day.

     On the inside, I battle the consistent white wash. I duckdive a wave when I feel the nose of my board hit the sand. I stand. I’m in the shallows close to shore. I get on my belly and paddle again. A guy way in front of me is walking his board out. I slide off my board. Still, I’m in shallow water. I turn around. I haven’t moved. I only have fifteen minutes left on the meter. I turn around and head to the showers.

     People all around have their cameras out while I’m changing. I check to see what they’re looking at. It’s the sunset. What a funny thing to take in after complaining about the surf. Yes, the surf sucks, but here I am, here is everyone else. Whether a lover of the South Bay or people just in town for the day, this is what we have for scenery: sandy beach, bikers, joggers, chicks running in tight stretchy pants, dogs, and beach bums. The scene looks like someone adjusted the brightness, turning it all the way down, like the way a picture would dim out on a TV, but the only incongruence is with the pink in the sky, the pink between the streaks of grey clouds. The rest of the surfers make their way in underneath this pink. Waves close out in the foreground of the sky, but seeing the pink sunset makes me think that things could be worse. Look where I am. I could’ve been in Long Beach, Gardena, Lawndale or Hawthorne, but I’m a couple minutes away from the surf now in my small, humble enclave. I’ve moved back to this vicinity. Out of all the places I could be, I’m at the place that I love the most.

     Driving out of the lot and up the hill onto Highland Avenue, I can’t help to think how glad I am that this is home. 

OPTION 2, WED 02JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 0900-1030

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-4FT, soft, mooshy, slightly walled, sunny, cold, offshore then switched to sideshore.

     I wake up at 0730. It’s late if I want to surf. I have to attend a graduate meeting for school today, so if I do make the call, I have to do it now. Bri spent the night last night, so when I get up I ask her if she wants to surf.

     “Right now?” she asks.

     “Yes . . . no pressure.”

     Despite my grogginess, I’m moving around my apartment pretty fast, getting shit ready. I do want to give her the “option,” but I imagine how nice it might be out there right now and how much I’d regret it if I didn’t force her to join. I imagine she’d thank me later for it. After I load my boards and my water jugs, she’s still sitting on the bed, pondering.

     “Come on, let’s go,” I say.

     “What happened to ‘no pressure?’”

     I smile. “Okay, you don’t have to go if you don’t want, but the conditions are good, plus you haven’t surfed in a while.”

     She pouts, but she gets up and starts to change.

#

     It’s a beautiful, sunny morning. I don’t bother to check what the local breaks are doing but imagine they are still walled. Despite the nice, winter conditions, I’m beating myself up at our late start. I think for a moment that if it is indeed fun out there, we missed a good first-light window where we could’ve surfed ourselves stupid for a solid three hours.

     When we pull up to park, we see other cars there. It must be decent. We change, and on the way down the hill, other surfers are making their way up; most of them have longboards. Once I see the water, I realize that I may not have the right board for today. Nothing is breaking on the outside, and a pack of surfers sit, bunched up together, in the middle of the cove. I figure I got my new board that rides better than my thrusters in small conditions, so this will be a nice test for it.

     At the shore, I tell Bri that I’m gonna go ahead and make my way out. It’s nerve wracking, paddling through the rocks in the shallows. The last thing I need is to ding my brand new investment, especially since it is literally the last board in my thin quiver that is injury free.

     On my way to the outside, I see some fun, peeling, little two footers that look rideable enough, even on my Motorboat Too. On the outside, some bigger sets are beginning to roll in, bigger at about four feet. It turns out I was wrong. I find a place to sit just north of the longboarders. I’m waiting for a wave to swing wide, one of those walls that will taper off right where I am. It doesn’t take long before one comes. I paddle into it late. As soon as I stand up, the peak, despite its gradual slope, is running away fast. I pump to gain speed and pull off a front-side carve from the top, down to mid face. I square up my shoulders to redirect my nose down the line. The motion is fluid and fast. It feels good.

     Briana works her way out. We can’t even feel the offshore wind, so the water is glassy and ideal. The sun is still low but still giving everything an orange, morning glow.

     “I would have been pissed if you went without me,” says Briana.

     Some nicer sets roll in, but they are breaking better where the pack is sitting. I try to go, but there are already guys on those waves, so I have to back out. The problem with catching waves that break wide is that they have to be big enough to wall up where everyone else is, but sometimes these waves are so walled that I’m way too deep behind the shoulder to get a good ride out of them. I still force some wave or try to paddle for better position. I’m definitely having more fun than the last couple walled sessions at Porto, even though I can’t get more than one turn on these waves.

     I’m paddling back out when I see Bri paddling for a wave. I’m glad to see that she’s going for it a little deeper than usual and not shoulder hunting. It’s a better wave than anything I’ve caught this morning. She pops up perfectly on the peak. Her board is gliding down the face at an angle, setting up for a down-the-line ride, but she’s really slow at getting to her feet. If she could stand up instantly, she would be getting some long rides. She disappears as I paddle over the wave. She doesn’t get the full potential out of the wave, but she still pulls off a late pop up and gets some distance.

     We’re only an hour in when the wind changes. Sideshore wind from the north gives the water texture and makes it just a little choppy. Even though the wind isn’t strong, it’s messing up the shape. The morning glass is gone, and now the already-racy waves are being forces to break a little faster.

     Bri goes on another wave. I’m not sure what happens, but the board hits her head. I feel her scalp for the bump. It’s not bleeding.

     It’s a good time to call the session, plus I don’t have much time to get ready for my meeting, so we head in.

     On the trail, we watch the surf at a little lookout point before the trail bends away from the cove. From this vantage point, the waves still look fun. It’s a pristine day and a shame to have to turn our backs on the surf right now, but it’s okay. Maybe when the local beach breaks are walled, it’s not so bad. At least I know I have other options.

NEW YEAR’S BEATINGS, WED 02JAN2013 MOR

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0850-1100

Crew: Kotaro, Khang & Randy

Conditions: 5-6FT, offshore, sunny, high tide, dumpy.

     After looking at Porto and further south, 45^th Street was the call. When Randy and I arrived at the parking lot, Khang and Kotaro were already parked and watching it. There was no rush, as we hoped for the high tide to give Porto more shape. The size was obvious, but it was walled, too walled for this beach break. Khang and Randy said that the swell was supposed to peak at around ten or eleven o’clock. We watched the surf for a little while, slowly changing, until we saw some waves that had some kind of feasible shape to them.

     We walked to the smoke stacks first. The Jetty had the best waves; it was crowded, too crowded for our taste. Since the smoke stacks were smaller, we headed out to 45^th, to the channel. But the channel disappeared when the set came. I had a feeling it would be one of “those” sessions, where it’s just too fucking walled, and where one would face the consequences of getting pounded on the inside. In all honesty, surfers can say that those conditions are good for training, but I’m not a big fan of being rag dolled and having the long hold downs.

     We all paddled out at a good window. The spot was semi crowded. Walls came in without any shape. Dumping, ferocious, powerful, macking. I had my game face on; the session wasn’t about fun, not in those conditions. I have too much respect for the ocean. Six feet, closing-out Porto . . . I’m no pro; this is not my comfort zone.

     I went left on my first wave. It looked walled, but the shoulder slightly tapered, but not down to a perfect angle. The end of the shoulder still held some height. I paddled and popped up fast on my JS. Immediately, I worked my way down the line, staying close to the face. Surfers in front of me stared towards my direction as they paddled over the shoulder. The wave I was on became dark; a wall built up on the side of me. I hunkered, tucked down, and drew my hands in front of me to make myself small. All this happened so fast, the guys paddling over the shoulder were still watching. Then . . . I felt the crash of the wave, and I was smashed into the water. It was the first wave of a set. I paddled and tried to duckdive the white wash. I couldn’t even do that. The next wave was building up, about to break right on top of me, and then I committed a major surf “no no” by ditching my board. One more beating, and I made it to the lineup.

     I was rattled, but I tried not to show it. My brother paddled in front of me. “I just tried to pull in right now, but I don’t know what happened,” I said.

     “You were in there for a while?” he asked, as he paddled by.

     “Well, no . . . not really.” The thought lingered; over and over again I replayed what went wrong. Maybe I should have gotten closer to the face. Was it the lip that came down on me?

     Kotaro was paddling into waves too, also taking some time to get back to the outside.

     Big sets would come, creating a mad dash to make it to the outside. Even though most of the waves were walled, the right in front of the Tanks was working. A lot of guys weren’t making it down the line. Some weren’t even surviving the drop, but the shape, though fast, was holding.

     At 45^th, a bomb right came. I didn’t think it was rideable. Right at the peak, I watched my brother paddle into it and pull in. We’re both goofy footers, so he grabbed rail and made himself small in the tube. I saw the lip start to throw out over him before I made it over the shoulder. He got pinched in the barrel, but I was in awe at his comfort zone to even go for a wave like that.

     Randy then head to the sandwich shack, leaving the rest of us to ourselves by 42^nd. I was being picky after my beating. I passed on a right which was borderline makeable, at least by me. I waited for a wave with better shape, and it came. I caught a smaller left on the inside. The shape was good, and even though the face stood up, it was more of a spilling wave. I climbed the face, getting a nice carve on a critical section. When I resurfaced after the wave, I saw Khang darting towards the outside again. Everyone was. The next bombardment was on its way, and I was in the impact zone all by my lonesome. I didn’t even bother to duckdive it. Again, I slid off my board. I tried to duckdive the rest of the sets.

     Kotaro went on one of the waves, but he had an awkward wipeout, falling backwards into the flats; it was one of those whiplash wipeouts.

     Khang said, “I think I’m going in, dude.”

     “What? Really? I said.

     “I mean . . .”

     Really, there was no need for explanation. It was big and walled, a nasty day for Porto. I tried to be more optimistic. The next wave came, a right. I caught it and tried to set up for a bottom turn, but it looked like it was about to throw out. Instead of pulling in for a back hand barrel attempt, I jumped ship. It’s shameful. It’s such a different feeling for me right now, pulling in going backhand.

     Khang and Kotaro caught their waves in, and I paddled towards my brother.

     “There were two waves when I got here,” he said. “After that . . . nothing!”

     At that point I was over my performance and the shape. I caught a wave in. In the parking lot, I shot the shit with Khang and Kotaro before they left. When I placed my JS in my wagon, I saw that a big chunk from its tail was broken off, only held together by some glassing and ravaged foam. Two years ago I had messed up the tail of the JS too. It was also on a big day at Porto, and it was from being stuck in the impact zone. I had pledged to always hold onto my board in those situations, and this was the price for not following my oath.

     When Randy returned, I zipped the JS up in my board bag. Back at my garage, I put it away myself, making sure that he didn’t see it.