TO COMPLETE A QUIVER…, THU 6FEB2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1500-1700

Conditions: 1-3 FT, raining, onshore, choppy, scattered wind swell peaks

     I’m surprised that I’m even thinking about paddling out. Dark clouds hover over PV. There’s spotty rain all over the South Bay, but right now it’s not. It’s overcast though. Three guys are out in front of 45^th, and the surf is small, choppy, and onshore. On top of that, all three surfers are on shortboards. Wrong equipment. They can only go straight on the sectiony waves, and they aren’t selling the surf.

     Regardless, it’s the end of my school week, and what better way to end the week than a paddle out? I have zero expectations. I just want to get wet. Also, I came prepared.

Throw Back:

     I’m paddling out on Bri’s NSP. It’s 7’10, thick and wide. Finding the sweet spot to lie on this board is a little challenging at first. The nose dips under the water. I scoot back a little.

     The inside waves push the board up against my body, putting pressure against my stomach. Wow, I need to give Bri more credit for riding this awkward thing.

     I sit north of the other surfers, only two guys now. Even though the surf is crap, I’m glad to be out here. It’s a “whatever session,” and I know that I’m guaranteed to catch a wave on this board, but will I do it well?

     On the first two lefts that I get, I walk the nose, turn around, and try to ride backwards, purling both times. Yup, it’s a lot harder than it looks on TV.

     I still manage to make it back out to the lineup without having to turtle dive the board.

     My next waves are late takeoffs, but there is so much board that balancing is easy. I try to bottom turn, struggling to draw a higher line. I stick my hand in the face of the wave to stall, and I get the positioning I need. Even though the wave is sectiony, the board just drives through the whitewash, getting me to the open face. I try to walk the nose to make it past the next section but purl.

     There’s so much more to longboarding that I had failed to appreciate. Bri looks much better surfing on this thing than I do. She has style, and I look like I’m forcing the board into turns instead of flowing with the board’s energy.

     But my wipeouts and goofy rides are so fun. More surfers are out, most of them on shortboards. They’re not going down the line. Meanwhile, I have waves to spare, eating shit, resurfacing with a smile each time.

     Into the second hour I finally get into some kind of longboarding groove. I draw an ugly frontside turn, redirecting the long boat of a nose towards the shore and down the line again. Not a cutback, but the closest thing I’ve ever come to a turn on a longboard. I can see why they say “bend the knee” when you’re turning on one of these things. Of course, I wasn’t directly over the tail. I sure as shit didn’t bend my knee. So how did I look? Fuck, I was stiff legged, leaning so far forward like I was bending over to get fucked in the ass.

     I had the most fun just making all the sections, even the reforms on the inside. I got to play with the length of the board, stepping forward to gain momentum, shifting back to the rear to check turn and slow myself down. It’s buoyancy has standing taller than usual, giving me a different perspective of the wave, seeing soft, moundy shoulders instead of sections I can’t make.

     Towards the end of the session it starts to rain. When I’m back on shore, three shortboarders pass me on the sand to paddle out. They take a look at the NSP and scoff under their breaths. It’s funny to think how I used to be one of those guys on the wrong equipment, on a 6’0 potato chip when the surf is crap. And Rick used to lecture me all the time about riding the right equipment, his choice being a fish. And I’d discount his advice, thinking I knew better.

     Well, I’m stoked now. Even more stoked than the last session I surfed at PV when I cut my foot, and the waves were much better that day too. I have a newfound respect for longboarders, so long as they aren’t too greedy with the waves.

     So I’m checking Craigslist now, looking for a big fat fish that I can ride in small, onshore slop. I’m beyond sold on having a small wave board. Surfing the NSP made me realize that with the right equipment, you can just about surf everyday if you want to. 

TWO WEEKS, WED 5FEB2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT, low tide, cold, inconsistent, crowded

     Two weeks since I last surfed. Two weeks nursing this stubborn slice under my toe. Two weeks listening to Rick and his homeboys talk about how good the surf has been. Two weeks later, and my cut has still not healed. Two weeks too long.

     Klaude told me today that he feels like the guy who doesn’t surf. Well, I’ve been that guy lately, not by choice either. But it’s so easy to fall out of a surf groove and surf identity.

     Sleeping in, watching Bri shut my apartment door with a hot water jug in her hand; picking up a book and reading down its face instead of sliding down the face of a wave. Might as well be productive.

     How about my paddling arms? Will they remember? My condition. Has it deteriorated?

#

Dawns:

     Don’t take dawn patrols for granted. They’re not so easy of a habit to delve back into.

     Grabbing my gear, I shut and lock my garage door, realizing that I’ve forgotten my wetsuit and a bunch of other necessities. “Fuck!” I say. I open it back up again, triple check my equipment.

     I drive off, passing by Bri who’s stepping out of her car. “Meet you there!” she says.

     That’s my chick. More of a damn surfer than I am nowadays.

     Driving down Grand Avenue, the El Segundo waves look small and weak. The Jetty looks weak too, but upon passing 45^th and looking down, I see that I am deceived. My view is quick as a flash, but it’s a flash of peaks.

#

Where I’d Rather Surf:

     I send out the courtesy text. KK, Khang, Dais. They all work. No surf today. Looking down from Highland Avenue, I only see two guys in the water. It’s 0640. There are peaks here too, scattered and sectiony, but I have a feeling it might improve with the tide. Nonetheless, there are waves.

     Porto looked better, but I’d rather not deal with the Porto crowd on my first day back.

     I walk down the hill in my flip flops, trying to baby my wound. Bri walks out of the parking lot just in time to intercept me. The top deck of her NSP has a thick coat of green wax, wax that Cheryl gave her at our Christmas Party.

#

Welcome To Grom Town:

     Did I say that there were only two guys out? Well, multiply that by thirty. I swear, it’s like high school out there in the lineup. The break in front of the lifeguard tower even has groms in different colored rashguards, not sure if it’s a contest or a test from their coach.

      But the groms . . . the same ones that I’ve seen here in years past, when they were little shits to being the bigger shits they are now. Their surfing already far surpasses mine. A Kolohe Andino lookalike with purple hair busts a frontside, three-sixty air. Other kids are doing massive carves, connecting them into cutbacks.

     Fuckin’ A. What do I have on these kids? I’m not sure. I’d like to think that I’ve had way worse wipeouts. I’m talkin’ lifetime achievement award wipeouts. But that’s it.

#

Look At Her:

     Bri . . . she’s not the noob that she was when I had first taken her out to Palos Verdes on our first date over a year and a half ago. She sure as shit ain’t the noob that I took to Old Mans, struggling to pop up.

     She paddles right past me, heading towards a spot that she’s eyed out for herself. Her body is positioned on her board with the knowledge of knowing where the “sweet spot” is. The gaze she fixes over the water before her is confident in her route. And each stroke of her arm that breaks the water’s surface in perfect cadence is done so with a purpose. She’s earned her title as a surfer girl. 

     We trade off on a couple of waves, but she gets much better rides. Three good ones to be exact, despite the crowd, despite the forty-five minutes that she has before work. After her last wave, she turns around and waves.

#

Square One:

     Here a grom, there a grom, everywhere a grom grom.

     “You catch any fun ones?” asks an older Japanese guy next to me.

     “I got one,” I say. “Earlier. Got only like . . . one turn. Hopefully we can get this place to ourselves when the kids leave!”

     That ride I got earlier. It wasn’t much, but it was my best wave of the day. I was in position for a perfect left-hand shoulder. Three feet. I went. A chick was on the inside, paddling towards the lineup watching me. I bottom turned and forced one gouge, weight of my whole body into the tail, arms flailing, mean torque. But that’s it.

     A whistle sounds from the shore. Minutes later, all the kids are paddling in. The waves do too.

     Something happens with the tide. Either it’s bottomed out too much or maybe the swell has officially backed off into a twenty-four hour lull, but the spot that I have all to myself has become inconsistent.

     Regardless, when the waves do appear, I’m in the wrong place. Old Japanese guy gets two slashing turns on a right. Next set, he gets two cutbacks on a left, his old ass throwing buckets out the back.

     A little after 0800, I see the local vets paddle out just south of me in front of the brick house. There’s Roy, Ross, Toru, Vietnam Vet Mike, and some other familiar faces. It’s more consistent there. More crowded too, but by 0830 half of them are gone.

     I struggle to get more than one turn, and I’m lucky if I’m not on a closeout.

     The saltwater exfoliates the pruned, surf-starved skin under my feet. I rub my toes, pulling away skin like layers on an onion. My cut stings.

#

     At 0900, I’m done. Back at my car, I look at my cut, and the wound is now saturated from the ocean, winking at me every time I tug my toe. Or maybe the slice is a smile. The jokes on me. I get it. Perhaps a mouth saying, “Feed me more waves, muthafucka!”

     And then there’s tomorrow, for which I have school, where I’ll be dawn patrolling the school library and not the beach.

     

SHARP, WED 22JAN2014

Loc: PV

Crew: Shan

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 5 FT+, sunny, glassy, semi crowded, sectiony.

     Shan had texted me last night, saying that he’d hit up PV in the morning. After a day of much needed rest, I tell him I’ll be there at first light.

     This morning, after hitting the snooze button, first light is no longer an option. I get up at about 0600, make some coffee, eat some breakfast, and head out the door.

     I cruise along Highland Avenue, looking for signs of surf. Hammerlands has surfers sitting off of the jetty. Even the south side of the jetty has a pack, a small one. I see no heads at 45^th, but in passing 26^th Street I see a light crowd. There are definitely lines coming in, and I doubt that the local beach breaks can hold any shape.

#

     I score prime parking near the path at The Cove when I see a Japanese guy with long hair in a pony tail walking behind me.

     “Morning,” I say.

     “Hey.”

     I take a closer look and realize that it’s Ross, Manhattan Beach’s own, veteran ripper. “Not surfing local?” I say.

     He scoffs and says, “No! It’s been shitty!” He has his hands in his jean pockets, looking down at the surf. “I can’t tell if there are waves.” He paces. “Eh, I think I’ll just paddle out.”

     “Okay. See you out there!”

     I check my phone, and Shan says he’s leaving in five minutes.

     Down at the cliffs, two Japanese kids are about to paddle out. One leads out ahead of him, and the other kid hesitates, timidly taking small, awkward steps. He puts his board down to use it for balance. Even after I’m done warming up, he’s still trying to walk out to where it’s deeper.

     I take the same path he did, and I get hung up on some jagged rocks to. The water is murky, so I can’t see where I’m stepping. My left foot slips on a rock, and I feel it slide into a deep, jagged hole. I wince at the pain. I finally get to deeper water and paddle away.

     I’m gaining on the kid in front of me and think about the long paddle outs that I’ve had in Java and Bali. This is nothing. I expect to pass the kid, but then the white wash from the sets start rolling in. Duckdive after duckdive, it’s like I’m on a damn oceanic treadmill. My rear delts burn and my upper back muscles go tight. I guess . . . it doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve surfed. If you’re out of surfing shape then you’ll suck ass regardless.

     I overtake the kid and make it past the inside break. A guy on a longboard takes a left, heading straight for the kid, and then I see the longboarder kick out. He looks pissed. “Mannnn!” he says while throwing up his arms in disgust. The kid was in the way.

#

     I’ve surfed decent swell at PV before, probably six-to-seven feet. Today it’s not that big. During the lull, we all sit scattered. The sets are somewhere between five and six feet. When they arrive, they are mostly sectiony with a deceptive shoulder. Then the sets start breaking even further out, leaving everyone out of position.

     Even though there are a good handful of surfers here, the crowd is manageable. At any time, a surfer may be in the perfect spot, too deep, too far outside, or caught in the impact zone. It’s that kind of day, and I love it because it gives everyone a chance.

    

NO LONGER SPOILED:

     At Trestles Klaude had said, “This place is too easy.” I think Trestles is so forgiving and rippable that one can be easily fooled into believing that he’s an advanced surfer. But coming off of an awesome Trestles trip, I’m struggling with PV’s waves. Don’t get me wrong. PV isn’t critical. Even the time I had surfed it bigger, it wasn’t. I mean, let’s be serious here. The Cove doesn’t break “round.” It isn’t a fast barrel machine, it’s not a slap that will pitch you over the lip into the shallow reef. There are rocks at PV, but the waves break so far out that they aren’t really an issue. Even though PV can hold decent shape with big surf, it’s still a slopey wave. However, it is still a wave to be respected. On this morning, there is a lot of water moving around. Something about this spot makes me feel slower, paddling around on my shortboard. I can see why this is a good longboard spot; you need the extra volume. Also, since the waves are sectiony, you really have to be able to read them well or be good at making the sections.

     I go left on my first wave. I take off late, but the big, spilling lip sinks my rail as I slide down its face at an angle. My second wave has some decent shape, but my front foot slips off of the deck.

     Now I’m a little frustrated. I should’ve taken the time to strip my board. I had this same issue at Churches.

     Sets appear when I least expect it, and like a bunch of lemurs, everyone paddles towards the outside in unison. After duckdiving each set wave, there is another bigger one behind it breaking even further out.

     I thought I was in shape, but working through the whitewash wears me out.

#

NEVER FLAKE:

     I’ve been in the water for an hour, and Shan’s still not here. To give you a little history, he’s a guy who always hits me up the night before to surf and never shows up. I look around. Ross is still here. He has a short, fat board, and he’s ripping it on both lefts and rights. Even on the closeouts, he manages at least a turn. Other longboarders look back at his spray and then look at each other, as if saying, “Who is this guy?”

     Ross paddles up to me and says, “Ho! Fun!”

     I’m thinking about how I’m going to deal with Shan if he doesn’t show up. I picture myself back at my car, reading his lame excuse of a text, and then writing back: FLAKE. That’s it.  

     Looking towards the north side of the Cove, I see Shan paddling towards me. Right on.

#

     I’m trying to share some waves. Everyone’s a familiar face by now, and I don’t want to be greedy, so I’m a good sport. I hoot guys who catch the bombs.

     I get a rare left that has a long shoulder to it. I manage one top turn, and the lip pushes me back down the face so fast that I lose balance.

     On my next wave, I lose balance and fall half way into my cutback. It’s not a good morning for Donny Duckbutter. What happened to all the good turns I got at Trestles?

     By 0930, the lulls get a little longer. The difference now is that the rights are working much better now. The shape improves a bit. More shoulders instead of walls come through.

    

BEWARE OF NOOB:

     A longboarder drops in on a guy. The guy is yelling behind him, trying to call the longboarder off of his wave, but the longboarder doesn’t know how to kick out. After the wave closes out, they are both floating in the marbleized foam.

     I keep my eye on the outside. A left rolls in. A fishrider sitting south has a decent shoulder. Down the line, on his line, the longboarder is still there, stuck in the inside, off of his board. The fishriding has to jump off of his board and into the longboarder to avoid a collision with the boards.

     Now an outside, rogue set has sprouted up. I already know that I’m not gonna make it, and I’m prepared to duckdive. As the first wave breaks, I see at least five longboards get ditched. I mean, I haven’t seen nothing like this in a while. Just boards getting shoved aside in the lineup with their riders diving to save their lives, while their boards bob dangerously in the surf.

#

     At the two hour mark, I tell Shan that I’m taking one in. Meanwhile, the north part of The Cove is giving long, rippable rights. I catch a left, tagging the lip once before straightening out back to shore.

     A chick, who I usually see at Porto, paddles towards shallow water. Her man friend walks up to her and takes her board. They walk up the hill. He still carries her board. Fuckin A. SURF VALET!

     So it wasn’t that great of a session for me, and I can’t blame the waves. It’s just different here, and other guys in the lineup were ripping. I accept that I surfed shitty.

     The bottom of my left foot hurts, so I take a look. Right there, in the most critical and inconvenient spot, where the crease on the bottom of the bend of my big toe meets the ball of my foot, is a fucking deep and clean slice.

     I had cut my other foot last week and now this. Maybe it’s time for some booties.

     My phone has been blown up with texts about what the call will be on Friday because of the increase in swell. I just came back from a Trestles camp trip, so I might just come here.