I NEED A FISH, SAT 15FEB2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, warm, glassy, mooshy, high tide

     It’s 0530. Bri’s still conked out. Even after I turn on the TV and play Who is JOB (Pipeline sequence), she only rolls over to bury her face in her pillow (yes, I’m a surf geek). Whatever tiredness that I had felt is gone. Jamie O’Brien has me stoked, yesterday’s surf session still has me stoked too, so I’m ready to get an early start.

     The sound of the running water to full up the water jugs finally jars Bri loose from the mattress. We’re at Manhattan Beach by 0615.

     We’re early but we’re late. Prime barking by the lifeguard station is taken, so we have to park on Highland Ave. Changing in the dawn’s, light-blue light, with the radio turned down but still loud enough to nod my head to, I feel dedicated to have woken up so early. Few cars are on the streets, curtains are still closed with lights off, and the cool morning air are confirmation to belonging to the few, the proud, the dawn patrollers.

     I expect the surf to be just like yesterday if not better, but walking down the hill towards the beach, the peaks looks smaller and weak.

     We pass Vietnam-Vet Mike again, now watching the surf from his VIP parking spot that’s right in front of a house on the strand. He looks at us and says, “It’s definitely not like yesterday.”

     In the lineup, we surf next to a longboarding local who wears boardshorts over his wetsuit. He and Bri are the only ones catching waves. Another guy, on a shortboard like myself, tries to pump down the line, but the waves are so small and soft that it’s hard to turn. He struggles. We both struggle. I get a right, forcing a backhand snap before it mooshes out. He gets a frontside layback snap. After that, there’s just too much tide for any shortboarder to do anything.

     Later, I spot Klaude in front of the lifeguard tower south of us. I paddle towards him. Orlando is here, his homie Jose, Robert, and some over veteranos.

     Klaude’s on a shortboard like myself.

     I wish I would have brought the Becker board today, but I thought the surf was better. And now, despite my lecture on riding the right equipment, I’m on the wrong equipment.

     Bri’s able to get so many rides. Each time she gets to shore is like a slap in the face. Idiot, I think to myself. And then again, it’s not so much than I’m an idiot because I’ve been watching Craigslist for a good deal on a fish: preferable 5’8 length X 20 wide X 2.5 thick. I had missed out on a deal that I took too long to pull the trigger on. The best deal right now is all the way in San Diego.

     I don’t mind longboarding, but that’s Bri’s board right now. I’ve ridden fat fishes before, and I’ve done well in mooshy and small conditions on them. I need one right now.

     Our friend Deathwish Dave shows up. He lives in Mississippi right now, only in town visiting. He paddles out and tells us how he wants to move back so badly.

     I switch boards with Bri, easily catching three waves. Even with the waves breaking closer to shore, I muscle into them early to at least get some distance.

     Afterwards, I depart with the NSP, strapping the Lost Mini Driver back to my ankle. I tell Bri that I’ll wait for her on the sand.

     I sit on the shore on my board’s rail with the opposite end pitched in the sand. At least it’s good for sitting on.

ONE ANGRY MAN, FRI 14FEB2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, warm, glassy

     I expect a small day of surf, so Bri and I drive separately to the beach (since she has work). She has the NSP and I bring the 6’10 Becker board, the next biggest board in my quiver. 

     When we get down to the beach, we see that the surf is standing up pretty well, peaky despite the incoming tide.

     Vietnam-Vet Mike says hi to us as we pass a bench on the strand, his morning hangout spot. “Where you been?” he says. I explain that I’ve been at Porto in the evenings. He points to Bri. “She’s been tearing it up!” he says, confirming Bri’s local celebrity status, overtaking my own.

     The tide forecast must have scared people away. Even the high school grommies are thin right now.

     While the pack of locals sits further north, we have the lifeguard tower all to ourselves.

     The rights are working this morning, and I paddle into them. They mush out a little towards the inside, so I try to cutback to stick with the spilling lip to keep momentum, but I bog out anyway.

     Bri, of course, has enough board to go all the way to shore.

     Wave after wave, the same thing happens. Turns out that the Becker is bigger than my other shortboards, more volume easily, but its shortboard shape isn’t good for mushy surf. At least for me. I’m sure that there are pros out there who can get an air out of one-foot closeouts, but I’m just a Barney.

     Once Bri leaves, we swap boards, and my whole session changes. Mike paddles out, and we trade off on waves. Two bald brothers sit on the inside, scratching out or just unable to get any distance. I get a left, walking the board, doing everything technical that my skill level is allowing me to do to get down the line. One of the bald brothers is right in my line, and what does he do? Absolutely nothing. He could at least paddle a couple of feet forward to get out of my way, but he sits there stubbornly wearing a scowl, his eyebrows pointed down. Earlier, I had even paddled away from him so as not to hog the spot. Even though he’s being a dick, I feel sorry for him, and then I feel like an asshole myself. . .

     How many times have I sat there, upset that I wasn’t getting my waves while watching some other guy (usually a longboarder) get all the rides. Today I could be that longboarder, but I did my best to share. I know enough etiquette from experience to not take every fucking wave. Just because I can doesn’t mean that I should. I have to share to promote a positive surf-friendly environment, the so called “Aloha” of the art.

     The guy’s mad. Part of me wants to say something like, “At least get out of the way.” I do whenever I’m in the way. The tide’s just too high for a potato chip thruster right now. He’s on the wrong equipment, but he doesn’t know, and he blames me.

     And what’s the point? It’s so mushy and hard to get down the line without volume right now.

     I watch his brother catch an inside wave, and he’s pumping so hard to stay in it that he looks like an angry gorilla stomping his feet and banging his fists on an invisible surface.

     Dude . . . wrong board, man. Wrong board. You need to be on something else.

     Maybe one day he’ll figure it out.

     I paddle away from Angry Man. Back in the lineup, I let the next wave go. He scratches out, left behind and defeated, finally giving up his stroke with a frustrating splash. I can’t see his face, but his shakes from side to side in fits of frustration. 

SURFING AND IMAGE, THU 13FEB2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1600-1730

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, warm, glassy

     Back in 2006 when I first started consistently surfing, I would drive straight to El Porto after work with my NSP and surf gear pre packed. You’ve heard this story before. . .

     I would come here with zero expectation, zero pickiness about the conditions, and I would be filled with stoke just to paddle out and get wet.

     Turns weren’t even on the wish list yet, for going straight meant going surfing, and surfing was all that mattered.

     I was proud, 7’10 NSP with flames and all. As long as I was in the water you couldn’t tell me shit. I saw myself as a surfer, just as much as the guys on their shortboards shredding, and then something happened. . .

     Blame it on my influences: my brother, Rick, my stack of surf DVD’s, or just blame myself. Somewhere along the line, image got in the way. My board became too big. Maybe it was the way other surfers looked at me in the lineup, or the way they looked cranking out turns, somehow able to paddle into waves on their tiny boards. Maybe it was my insecurity. Somewhere along the line, I wanted to surf like them, look like them.

     Of course, the Donny Duckbutter of today would have told young Donny to stick to his NSP, “Learn to turn that fucking thing at least before you taper down.” But what did I do? I bought a 6’10 Becker shortboard, a big shortboard but still a shortboard shape. And there I was, paddling into waves on a shortboard . . . going STRAIGHT.

     And it was enough to satisfy my ego because I was on a shorter board. It looked cool. It didn’t have that funboard shape that spelled B-A-R-N-E-Y.

     But the Becker board got too big too, so I tapered down to a standard shortboard, a 6’0 hand-me-down from my brother, and I paddled into waves on that thing . . . going STRAIGHT.

     That shortboard was blue with a cool design on it, like a cross between a tiki face and a dark blue spider on its deck. The lightness of the board combined with its sharp, blade-like shape and spelled P-R-O. I didn’t feel like a pro, but I had a pro board, and walking from my car to the sand I looked like a surfer who belonged to the ripper fraternity of shortboarders.

     Years later, I matured, or I at least thought that I did. I stuck to my shortboards, eventually buying a bigger 6’6 on recommendation from my brother. From there I tapered to a 6’3 before I went to Bali, and then a thick 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, that’s 20 inches wide and 2 ½ inches thick, before I went to Java, a board I considered “big” by my standards.

     Just this week, I’ve been paddling out on the NSP again, just because of my time crunch for surf. I’d rather paddle out and catch waves on a longboard than scratch out on one foot surf on a shortboard.

     I had been giving my girlfriend advice on how to surf this thing, and little did I know that even I can’t turn this thing with grace. I had missed out a lot on my fundamentals by ditching this longboard too soon.

     So today in the lineup, I’m surrounded by shortboarders, paddling into sectiony, two-foot slop, only going straight or bogging out down the line. Meanwhile, on this Barney board, I’m stacking up the wave count against them, using different points on the deck to get down the line and milk the sections as long as possible. Only now do I realize what the point of surfing is.

     Up until this point I had been a victim of my own ego, my own pride to never be caught dead on a longboard because they represented the beginner level of surfing, because I wanted to “turn” and “rip,” because I wanted to at least have ranking as someone who is “good.”

     But on crappy days, what’s the use of riding the wrong equipment, to have a cool board, only catching a couple of waves in a couple of hours and going straight on most?

     The purpose of paddling out is to catch waves. I’ve been a Barney all along. I haven’t learned anything. I’ve had so many sessions, bobbing in the lineup, complaining about the longboarders, SUP guys, and guys with the fishes because “they were taking all of the waves.” Beginners or not, they made the right calls, paddling out on whatever it took in order to actually surf.

     My attitude had been terrible, saying that the surf was too small, too choppy, too inconsistent, instead of accepting that, regardless, it was still “SURF.”

     So today I’m out here, with the sun in my face, headache-causing and blinding. I’m one of the few guys out here on a fun board. I could be a kook, and I could not. Maybe I’m a longboarder by choice. All I know is that . . . that doesn’t matter anymore.

     I’m out here on the right board, the right equipment. I drove to the beach knowing that I would catch a wave today no matter what the surf was doing. I’ve unwrapped a dusty gift that’s been forgotten and left in a dark corner of a basement, something that’s been here all along.

     I’m not a shortboarder or a longboarder; I’m just a surfer. I have the right gear to surf every day if I want to. Shortboard or long, fish, tri-fin, or quad-fin, nothing (save for a swell that’s way too big for me) should keep me out of the water.

     I’ve pulled into the Porto parking lot and pulled out too fast too many times.

     Surfing is not about the image. Riding a board that you’re not ready for defeats the purpose and idea of surfing entirely. You must do whatever it takes to get you on a wave instead of bobbing in the water like a useless buoy.

     Years ago I had paddled out to Porto, stoked to catch anything, and I had called that “surfing.” Today on my NSP, I can call it surfing again.

     The lost gift that I’ve unwrapped is just that. There have been waves all along, unridden, all right here in this very spot.

     I catch a long right, walking up to the nose, just a foot shy of it. From the spilling curl of the lip, I’m in the most powerful point of the wave, passing the other shortboarders who have backed out for me.

     From my vantage point, I’m so high up that I can predict where the next sections will be before they even form. I hold my line, confident that I’m on the right board that will take me all the way to shore.