FISH DAYS, MON 26AUG2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0730-1000

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-2 FT, sunny, consistent.

Back to School:

     Now that I’m back in school, writing about these sessions are a little difficult with the homework that I already have. If I’m to survive my last year in the masters program, I’m going to have to cut some of these posts short. I’ve already broken my oath (to this blog) by leaving out one surf session, which was a session that I had the day before I left to Wisconsin. When I had returned home, I couldn’t recollect any of it. My memory was fuzzy, but I only remembered that it was at Manhattan Beach and that it was small.

     Anyway, what I mean to say is, to stay above the waterline of my assignments and to prevent myself from submerging, I have to find a way to make these posts shorter. Unfortunately, writing short was never my style, but for this session that I’m writing about from nearly a week ago, I can barely remember it.

#

     The forecast says that the surf will be small today, so I pack Rick’s Zippifish. As Bri and I walk down towards the beach, our expectations are minimal, at least mine are. Of course, down at the water, we see some small, crumbly shoulders rolling through.

     We paddle out, and to my surprise, even though the surf is small it’s consistent enough to keep us busy. Bri and I trade off on waves, going left and right but without many turns. The best I can do is trim and try to draw as much distance as possible.

     During the lulls, we have a lot of space between the other sporadic patches of surfers. Closest to us, on our right, is a longboard couple. Some guy’s trying to teach his girlfriend how to surf. He calls his chick into waves, and she flails her arms and legs like she’s drowning in the two inches of water on the deck of her board. She doesn’t catch shit. Her boyfriend’s not doing so great either. Every time Bri and I get into waves, they look our way, probably wondering how we’re getting so lucky. Back at the lineup, Bri says, “He’s on a stand up paddle board.” I take a look, and she’s right. His board is abnormally long, but he’s riding his SUP like a surfboard. Why the hell can’t he catch any waves on that thing?

     We take a lot of waves in the half-filled lineup. Turning this fish is hard, but I pull off a couple finishing floaters, not pretty but good enough for the shape that’s been given to me. Back at the vehicle, I feel satisfied that the go out was worth it. I think about the past week when I didn’t surf because the forecast said it was too small. Was I being too picky? I’m sure that Manhattan Beach was still crowded with surfers, size or no size. Regardless of the swell, I need to have that beginner-surfer’s stoke, where every paddle out is worth it. Lucky for me I have Rick’s Zippi for the time being.

     Back home, I unload the board from my wagon and put it on the shelf, but I notice that the board is still dripping wet. I take a closer look and see that water is dripping out through the small, spider-web cracks on its nose. Waterlogged.

#

     Since school starts tomorrow, I go into shitbag mode for the rest of the day. We go to McDonald’s, pick up some snacks from the value menu, and head to the movies. Finally, I can see Elysium starring Matt Damon. It’s a good movie, but it gets hella cheesy at the end. After that flick, we sneak into another theater and watch Kickass 2. Damn, I love catching the early movies on the weekdays. No motherfuckers sitting in front of me, being loud as shit, and no assholes behind me, kicking my fucking seat.

     The night ends with me staring at the ceiling, both fans blowing over my body at full blast. That’s it, summer is officially over. Where the fuck did it go? Indo, home, Wisconsin, a couple weeks off, and school. Summer 2013, I’ll remember the good times we had. I close my eyes and mentally prepare for my last year of college.

WAITING FOR WINTER, SUN 25AUG2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0800-0930

Crew: Bri, KK, and Tom                                       

Conditions: 1-2 FT, overcast.

     After surf porn night at Klaude’s house, I have a hard time getting out of bed. Since I’m the surf authority in my household, waking up late is my fault, not Bri’s. That’s why there’s no movement from Bri. Every time I hit that snooze button and procrastinate the start of the day, she nuzzles back into her pillow, accepting the extra sleep.

     At 0800, we finally reach Manhattan Beach. Klaude’s already out there; I know this. He’s the type of guy who doesn’t call or text when he’s on the way. All that matters is the commitment made the night before. “I’ll be there,” is what he said.

     There’s so much overcast that there’s no sense in doing a surf check; might as well change and head down the hill. Other surfers are coming back early from their sessions, walking in pairs back to the metered lots. The surf’s probably shit, but beyond the fog I hear that static white noise, like the inside is consistent, bubbly whitewash. Something’s breaking. I can hear it.

     The surf becomes visible once we hit the sand. Klaude’s easy to spot with his pale, kabuki face. The good news is that there are waves, and the surf is consistent. The bad news is that the size has tapered down a foot from yesterday. Today Surfline is accurate: one-to-two feet.

     Despite the onshore wind, the surface conditions are clean. Some of the bigger waves wall up, but there are a lot of shoulders to go around, more so for longboarders, for Bri.

     I say hi to KK and Tom.  “I’ve haven’t caught a wave in twenty minutes,” says Tom. Right then, the energy from my late appearance brings a wave right to me. Too bad it’s tiny, but I go right and trim my way to the inside. My next wave is no better.

     Again, like yesterday, it’s the guys with a lot of board who are scoring. Three blokes sit in our area, all riding minimum-rocker boards. They get most of the waves. The longboarders are doing more damage, and it’s my longboarder who’s the star.

     Bri . . . I’ve already mentioned how much she’s improved. I back out of some waves for her because she has good position. Again, her trademark is to take a critical, late take off, simulate that she’s wiping out by disappearing, and then springing up at the last second for a long ride to shore.

     Other surfers turn their heads, watching her go down the line with their frustrated frowns that say: I need a wave. Shit, I need one too. When Bri comes back, we’re paddle battling. She backs off and lets me have one. It’s another right, and I try to snap the lip, but I can’t create the momentum and power I need on this two-foot wave.

     Klaude paddles closer to the Brick House, while the rest of us stay south in front of the tower. The surf stays consistent but small. Even the three blokes around us aren’t catching much. At about nine o’clock, KK and Tom wait for their “last ones.” It’s so small that they both resort to catching some inside belly riders.

     I have no claim to fame for the morning. I get a left with a tiny floater section at the end, which I land. And then again, we’re talking about a two-foot floater here, so woopty doo! Bri continues her onslaught, making the small surf look stoke worthy. What have I done? I’ve created a monster.

#

     Earlier, when Klaude, Tom, and I were bullshitting, we talked about the small forecast. Right now, there’s a little south swell that’s giving the south facing beaches a green/fair rating. The South Bay isn’t getting anything, save for some minor northwest windswell. Take it all in while you can. Pretty soon it will be winter. Yes, “winter is coming.” I go back to school tomorrow. Summer’s over. The fall season will be fast. We’ll be winding our clocks backwards before we know it. Then . . . the winter NW swells will come into play. Are you ready for that? Picture the cool November mornings. No more boardshorts, rashguards, or spring suits. It’ll be time to whip out the 4/3s. Porto will be firing. Anything over five feet will be closing out with a deafening explosion. It’s flat now, but this will change. There will be those watching from the parking lots, underneath some shelter, protecting them from the rain. Others will be in the water, submerged from below and pelted from above. Where will you be?

     It’s small now, but there will be mornings when only a few will be able to make it out. The shoreline will be littered with those on their asses with their boards lying flat next to them. Will you be able to make it out?

     The beast awaits. . .

BACK FROM WISCONSIN SESSION, SAT 24AUG2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0730-1000

Crew: Bri and KK                                             

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, overcast, walled, fast corners, consistent.

     I came home last week. I was gone for nineteen days, no surf, no gym, nothing. The military gave me my three, square meals a day, and you can bet your ass that I splurged hard. There’s nothing like free food, especially when you’re a surf bum on a budget, and that’s why I gained ten pounds; I’m back up to 170.

     Upon my return home, the surf forecast read like a tragic love story. I had so much built up stoke with minimal surf to spooge it on. So I worked out, enjoyed my last week before school starts again, and I waited, waited for a little bump in the swell. Perhaps there will be . . . a pulse!

Old Habits:

     “You forgot the water jugs,” says Bri. She’s right. How could I have forgotten them? As we’re loading up the rest of our gear, I notice that my fin/wax bag is light, but I still throw it in the wagon. When we reach the beach, I pull out my wax bag and find that it only has base coat. What the hell is happening to me? We’re even a little late for the dawn patrol that we had planned on last night.

     Klaude drives by and throws up some gang signs as he passes. When we get to the parking lot to meet him, I bum some wax off of him.

     The local vets are in the parking lot: Orlando and Jose prep their gear, Jimbo looks like he’s had too much caffeine, and Mitch and Robert are overlooking the railing, debating when to make their move.

     Bri, Klaude, and I head towards the water and begin our warm ups. Even though Surfline called the local surf to be 1-2 FT and poor, there are actually lines coming in. Not big lines but much larger than just one-to-two feet, and they’re coming in consistently. Don, Randy, and Ross are selling the small waves as usual.

     Most surfers are in spring suits, some are rashing it, and few bareback it, like Jimbo. He goes for a right, which closes out. His back is brown, but his white ass crack looms over his shorts’ waistline.

     Brick House has the consistent sandbar here, and that’s where most of the rippers sit. We three are further south where it’s less consistent, but it’s consistent enough to stay busy.

     Not all of the lines produce rides. Since it’s a little walled, you really have to be in the right spot, right on the shoulder, but most of us are deep.

     Guys are out with fishes. Their flat, rockerless boards have them milking waves all the way to the inside. My first couple of waves are fast and short, but half way through the session, with the tide rising, the surf gets better. Who would’ve thought? The waves should be getting swamped out, but the surf cranks up a notch and becomes two-to-three feet.     

     Orlando takes the first wave of a set, but it closes out. Klaude catches the second, and I take the third. Finally, I have good positioning on the shoulder. I pump the racy section, and even though I haven’t reached the end of the wave, I force a frontside carve. Klaude’s still hooting when I resurface. Paddling back to Bri, I wear my dorky, good-wave smile.

     Bri’s another story. Klaude and I watch her on a late take off. She drops from our view. “Awwww,” we say, and then she stands up. “Ohhhh!” She continues to ride the wave to shore. Her pop up is fast now, and I can’t believe that she’s able to get up early enough on her longboard in this fast, punchy surf.

#

     Klaude and I plan to meet up later for a surf porn night. Traditionally, these have been held at my place, but since I live in a studio the size of a match box, we haven’t had one since I moved.

     While changing at the top of the hill, a chick pulls up next to us in her SUV. “You guys leaving?” she asks. I can’t tell you how much I hate being rushed by people waiting for parking. I hold up my hand and spread my fingers apart. “Oh no, take your time!” she says. Fuckin’ A. So Bri and I change at our own speed. I look back and see that she doesn’t plan on moving her car, so she just double parks on Highland Avenue, on this busy ass, two-lane street. Unbelievable, I’m thinking. A long ass line of cars stack up behind her, even a bus, while she’s just sitting there, waiting, and messing with her phone. Cars begin to honk, and every time they pass, you can hear that extra push of the accelerator.

     Throwing on my T-shirt, I see Shan walking towards me. When we draw eye contact, he eyes widen with surprise.

     “That’s my friend,” says Shan, pointing at the white SUV in the street. “She’s waiting for your spot.”

     “Fuckin’ A.” No shit . . . wow. So they’re friends. Sad to say this, but now this situation makes more sense to me. Shan trots over to the SUV, despite the long ass line behind it, chats with her, and then comes back and waits.

     Bri and I head to Blue Butterfly for breakfast. Main Street is shut down because of a classic car show. We get our order in fast, but once we sit down, the line grows until it’s out the door.

     Walking through Main Street, we stop and look at some cars. “Look at that Camaro,” says Bri. It’s red with white stripes. We move along with the herd of enthusiasts until we cut between some buildings, making our own path back to the quiet parking garage where our wagon full of surfboards waits.