Loc:
Rosecrans
Time:
0600-0900
Crew: Rick
and the WHC
Conditions:
2-4 FT, scattered, light onshore, choppy, consistent, high tide.
It’s 0520, and I’m driving between 26th
Street and Rosecrans, looking for free fucking parking. Fridays are a bitch
because of street cleaning. Why am I up so early? One, because I told Rick that
I’d surf with him and his homeboys. They don’t like my favorite spot, so if I
want to surf with Rick I have to be flexible. Two, because I’m flying with Bri
to Oregon tonight to meet her family, but her family isn’t what has my anus gaped.
I’ll be back on Tuesday night, which means that I’ll be without surfing for
four whole days. Do you hear me? Four days without surfing.
I can’t find an open spot that will be free
of the street cleaner’s wrath, so I park on Rosecrans, where I’ll have to move
my car by 0800 to avoid a parking ticket.
Since my Mini Driver is in the shop (Rick’s
garage), I have to make do with my Motorboat Too this morning. I unsheathe it
from my Creatures’ surf sock. I haven’t ridden it in so long that it looks like
an artifact. My wax job from a month ago is patchy, so I grab a fresh bar of
cool water wax and go to town on it. As I rub it on, the old wax starts to
flake off, leaving nothing but the bare deck. Motherfucker. I whip out the
basecoat, trying to rewax the bare areas, but it’s not sticking.
“Matt!” I look up. It’s Rick coming down
the hill. “You shouldn’t park here,” he says. “Street cleaning. You should park
up by the meters.”
“The meters are the same thing,” I say.
“I’ll have to come out at eight anyway.”
“Yeah, but if you feed it now, it won’t
charge you until eight.” He looks down the hill at the surf. “I gotta get going.
Gary, Dave, and the boys are already out there. I’m late.”
At my new parking spot up the hill, I’m
still faced with the dilemma of my board. I’m furious and frustrated, trying to
force this wax on, but it still resists. I should just strip the whole thing,
but . . . it’s almost 0600. I’m running late too. I should be in the water.
Don’t be an idiot, just put on as much wax as possible and head out.
I haven’t surfed Porto in the morning since
I’ve been home (about a month), and I’m stoked to see that the surf is
uncrowded at this hour. That’s the only reason why I don’t surf Porto so much
anymore—the crowd. At least my spot has familiar faces, and people who know
each other don’t want to snake each other. There’s an order and unwritten rules
to follow, which of course get violated from time to time, but it’s not the
killing field that Porto is.
Rick and all his boys are out. There’s Dave
T, Gary and his son Russ, Manny A, and Jimmy B. We’re all spread out, and some
nice, four-foot sets start rolling in. The sandbars here are a little better
than my spot, perhaps. The south swell seems to be wrapping around into the
South Bay a nicely, and the energy of good surf is in the air.
The wind is light onshore, creating just a
little texture on the surface, but it’s still on the glassy side. I scratch out
on my first couple of waves. I do everything I can: scratch, kick, and try to
go late. The waves break a little later than expected. The swell has decent
size, but it’s a little mooshy because of the tide. In fact, the tide will be
topping off around eight o’clock, so it’s still getting higher.
I feel off without my Mini Driver. I
already feel the loss of volume just paddling around on this board. I get my
first left. Rick backs out for me, which is rare because he’s a reptile. My
board feels so loose that I struggle to get my footing as I setup for my first
turn. I get a small carve, not able to milk the wave for its riding potential.
On my second turn, I lose balance and fall backwards. Reaching the surface, I
see Rick at the lineup, smiling and giving me a thumbs up.
Everyone else makes a killing. They
position themselves in the right spots, throwing out buckets. It’s different
surfing with Rick and his boys, but they’re so much better than me; I know that
surfing with them will help me progress, but it’s also inspiring because these
guys are older and they’re still ripping. I hope to shred when I’m shriveled
and old.
By 0700, I remember why I don’t surf here.
It’s fucking CROWDED. Holy shit. . . I mean, no one was here at first, and now
all of Manhattan Beach has trickled in through the parking lot and down the
hill. Fuckin’ A, man. Too many people and not enough waves. The rising tide and
wind make the waves less consistent and choppier. I struggle to find a wave
with shape. Needing some breathing room, I paddle up to Rick and tell him that
I’m paddling further south. What I don’t tell him is that I might paddle all
the way to my favorite spot.
I paddle south, catching rights to help me
in my campaign to cover some distance. During my journey, I just so happen to
paddle right into the perfect spot for a right. A guy, who’s been waiting here,
turns and goes on the wave even though I’m in position. I still take the wave,
and I’m behind him. After a couple of pumps, he looks to his rear, sees me, and
kicks out.
Now, I don’t know if what I did counts as
back paddling, but I was literally paddling from point A to point B and just so
happened to come up on a wave. I’m upset that that guy went, but I press on,
hoping to see some of my boys.
When I reach my favorite break, I see that
none of the DRC are out. I know that Khang had told me last night that he’d be
surfing here today, but I don’t see him. A lot of the usual locals are missing.
A surprise. On a day like today with a good rating, there aren’t as many people
as usual. A sense of emptiness overwhelms me. I feel as if I’ve betrayed this
spot or missed out on something because I wasn’t here earlier.
The tide is killing it. When I had first
set eyes on the break in front of Rosecrans at 0545 in the morning, that was
the closing window of good surf. Now the waves are sectiony, inconsistent,
choppy, and mooshy. Even Don K, the king of this break, is riding a fun-sized
board.
I catch a left and purl. On a right, I lack
the volume to get down the line and just bog out. Fuck. It’s not Surfline’s
fault. They usually don’t determine a forecast depending on the tide.
Despite the conditions, I can see that the
swell has potential. The south swell is producing waves, and some of them are
still breaking through the tide.
After a while, I get in sync with my old
board. I catch a racy left and pump to the open face to set up for a monster turn.
On my Mini Driver, I usually end up with a slow and deep carve. I turn with the
same power that I normally do, but on this board, it’s so loose that I’m unprepared
for how easy its tail throws out. I almost do a layback snap from pushing so
hard, but what really surprises me is how I’m able to bring the board back
under my feet and recover. Even though the wave is now white wash, I ride out
of it. I miss my Mini Driver, but it’s nice to practice turns on my smaller
board too.
I hunt for another good left, but I end up
with rights, precision rights. I call them precision rights because I’m feeling
how snappier this board is. On my Mini Driver, I have to put a lot of weight on
the tail on my backhand snaps, but on my Motorboat, it’s like I just point and
shoot or . . . eye the spot where I want to snap, and then bam! Really sharp
and concise. This is fun.
Too bad the tide has shut down everything.
I had planned to surf until 1000, but at 0900 I have to call it. I’m done. The
waves are too sectiony, and turns are hard to come by.
Back at my wagon, I see that Rick and the
boys have already left too, probably much earlier when the surf took a shit.
Now I’m at home, packing my bag, thinking
about this trip. I guess my body can use a break. My knees have been bothering
me, and this morning’s paddle has made my left shoulder a little tender.
Bri says her mom makes good, homemade biscuits
and gravy. I’ve never had homemade biscuits and gravy before. I just hope that
her family is ready for a Black man to sit down at the dinner table with them.
I hope that I won’t be woken up in the middle of the night to barking dogs and
a burning cross on the front lawn. I should wear a hat and buy some skin
bleach.
AND . . . it looks like there’s still some
swell when I get home. I’ll be resting, recharging, and refueling in the
meantime. I’ll be taking a small hiatus, ready come back and go straight vagina
these some waves. Awwwww yeaaaaah. . .
