MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.11 WED 06AUG2014

The Stingray Session

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-3FT, inconsistent, glassy, uncrowded.

     The swell is supposed to be up a little bit, but looking at the surf at Bolsa, the forecasts may have been a little off. We push it further to the south end of HB. The swell here is hitting about a foot bigger, but the waves are breaking section-on-section, and I’m not in the move to surf closeouts, especially after Monday’s fun session and the drive just to get here.

     The sky’s overcast, compounding that gloomy skunky feeling inside. Nope, the drive hasn’t been worth it thus far. We stop at Goldenwest for a quick peek. It’s a little bigger than Bolsa, but there’s more wind here, making the shape a little crumbly. Even though Bolsa doesn’t have size, we head there for the quality.

     As much as I’d like to use my Motorboat Too, the conditions here are too small for it. When waves do come, they are clean and decent, but the few heads in the water are just sitting there stagnant, so I know it’s inconsistent.

     Bri opts for the 6’8 NSP while I break out the 6’10 Becker. There’s a small pack in front of Tower 20, but we paddle out just south of them, so as not to interfere with their peak. Upon reaching the lineup, a set comes in. Bri catches the first wave. I catch the second. Even though my wave is barely three feet, there’s something about the length and volume of my board. The wave is small and a little sectiony, but I pump down the line so fast, my full rails getting me to the open face. As the wave closes out, I do a foam climb with such ease that I’m surprised that this big board can yet be so maneuverable.

     The surf turns more consistent for a moment, and the people in front of Tower 20 begin to sneak over towards me and Bri, but the closer they get, the more they’re in the way. Going down the line, they are forced to kick out for us.

     Then things slow down again, and an enveloping lull keeps everyone still. On the inside, two fishermen have their lines cast out. No one else is paddling out, just the same three other guys who have been out since we got here.

     But the sets do come, and when they do, they have good shape. I can’t get crisp tight turns, but forcing all my weight on the tail for torque, I can whip the nose around, throwing out minimum splash at least. The board’s width makes sticking the floaters so easy. And then I get a right, two sluggish backhand turns. I’m surprised that I don’t purl.

     Standing on the inside, I’m pretty stoked. The tide is going down, the surf is getting a little better, and I’m getting the set waves. Smiling, I stare out over the blue horizon for the next lumps coming in. I grab my board and just then, it feels like something sharp stabs me in my right big toe, just underneath the toe nail. The pain is immediately excruciating. Wincing and whining like a bitch, I frantically climb on top of my board and paddle out and away, eyes tight and jaws clenched. Stingray is the first thing that comes to mind.

     I cradle my foot and rock back and forth. A wave comes. I miss it, almost getting run over by a longboarder. I imagine that the flesh underneath my nail is jacked, but instead there’s a small puncture wound on the tip of my toe. It bleeds profusely. I’ve never been stung by a stingray before. There’s no barb in my foot. The wound is small, but it hurts like a motherfucker. Looking behind me, I see the two fishermen on shore, so I assume that maybe one of them had hooked my toe on accident.

     Bri comes over. I have to try and put on my tough guy act, but I’m visibly struggling. “Maybe we should go,” she says. Of course I’m stubborn. By all means, I can’t go when the surf is getting better. If my toe is in fact cut by a fishing hook, I should be fine.

     Dealing with the pain, I catch more waves, making sure my feet don’t touch the sand on the inside, and I’m actually surfing well. However, the pain in my toe gets worse. It’s throbbing, and the sensation even spreads over to my middle toe.

     Still in denial, I switch over to the Motorboat Too that I had left on the sand, but it hurts so much now that I’m surfing like shit. I have to get out.

     I hobble on the sand towards the showers. The fishermen watch me as I walk behind them. They look away when I look back, but they track me once I pass them. Maybe they know. Maybe fishing right there behind me attracted a lot of stingrays.

     I rinse off at the shower, and the cold water makes the pain worse. Bri offers to drive, but I tell her I’ll be all right. We hit traffic on the 405 North. Bri falls asleep. It feels like such a long drive because the pain just pulsates, disappearing and then throbbing hard.

     Once we get home, Bri fills a basin with hot water, and would you believe it? The pain subsides immediately. I’m so drained from the sting that I pass out on the couch while sitting there with my foot soaked.

     There’s a first time for everything, and I hope that the second time never happens again. Lesson learned. Stingrays . . . you gotta respect those little fuckers. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.10 TUE 05AUG2014

Gary’s Birthday Go Out

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Bri, Gary, Juan, Manny, Dave T.

Time: 0600-0800

Conditions: 2-3FT+, consistent, onshore, scattered peaks.

     Bri and I had originally planned to drive to HB this week for surf, but since there’s a light lull in the surf, which is supposed to pick up again tomorrow, I debated on whether we should stay local or not. Upon getting the WHC chain text that Tuesday the fifth will be Gary’s birthday and that they’d be paddling out local, the decision on where to surf was made.

Local Pass:

     Being from the South Bay with El Porto around the corner, it’s good to show your face, here and there, during the summer to ensure you don’t get your Porto Pass revoked.

     I wake up at 0515 to find that there isn’t one text from the WHC yet, but right after brushing my teeth, the phone starts to go off. With gnarly bed head, eating a bowl of frosted mini-wheats, my phone starts to go off in rapid fire. Gary’s already parked and checking the surf. “A little onshore,” he says. Then the rest of the boys chime in. They’re on the way.

     Bri and I are a little behind schedule but not by much. It’s 0545, and it’s already light out. Late by WHC standards. 

     Reaching the sand, the guys are the only ones out in front of the lifeguard station. The conditions are choppy and onshore. Looks small but then some peaks start standing up scattered all over the beach. Classic windswell conditions. Slightly disorganized but rippable.

     We paddle out. I say happy birthday to Gary but ask him for reassurance that it’s actually his birthday. I just had to make sure because it kind of snuck up under my radar.

     I had packed CC’s Zippi, Big Blue, because I thought the conditions would be crappy, but the bigger waves are breaking three feet plus; I could’ve been ripping on the Motorboat Too or Mini Driver.

     Sharing, I let some good peaks go to some of the guys. Surprisingly, the waves pop up out of nowhere, sprouting into wedgy peaks with fast and racy down-the-line shoulders. Despite the onshore wind and chop, the waves hold shape before closing out on the inside.

     The activity in the water is so busy. Everyone’s catching waves. Manny ejects out of a wave with an air. It’s a frenzy of a session with no other surfers invading the spot but us. From the shore, I can only imagine how much we’re selling the subpar conditions.

     I’m in position for one of those wedgy lefts—I picked out as many lefts as possible this session, only going right once. The Zippi has so much volume that it affords me more time even on late pop ups. Once I’m up, I walk to the nose of the board and hold a high line. Towards the inside, I walk it back towards the tail and straighten out to avoid the closeout. The wave is still merely a foot high, but the Zippi’s thick rails keep pushing me through the inside. Wouldn’t be possible on my other boards. Manny even gives me a thumbs up. I guess he can appreciate an attempt at a stylish lean on the nose.

     Another surprise is the consistency. The inside is so consistent that it’s a workout getting back out. On top of that, the waves outside are consistently breaking, so you have to make sure that you don’t get run over.

     Into 0700, the crowd starts to show up. The peak is still ours, but as the minutes pass more people show up. Why is everyone so late? All around Rosecrans, too, not spread out much. Longboarders, a black dude with dreads and a wetsuit hood. A guy in trunks thinks he’s Joel Tudor and loses his leashless longboard, nearly crashing into two guys standing on the inside. I watch as a wave causes his board to flop high into the air, almost hitting someone.

     My wave of the day is another left, but the face on this one is a little more rippable. Instead of walking to the nose, I pump and get a little check turn off of the lip, making the section. I try to get one more turn before the wave closes out, and then I see Manny heading straight towards me on a right. I lose balance on my turn, back flopping, taking a pounding on my kidneys. It reminds me of Gary earlier. He had wiped out on the inside and resurfaced, standing in the shallows clutching at his lower back.

     I didn’t get to see Gary’s 360 attempts that the boys kept hollering about, but he was going for it. On one of his last waves, he was attempting an end section maneuver, and the lip of the wave just crashed into his head as he was trying to complete it. It looked vicious.

     Gary leaves first followed by Dave T.

     “I haven’t caught shit,” says Manny. He looks frustrated, which is funny because I thought I saw him on a lot of waves.

     Manny leaves, so now it’s just Bri and I.

     The tide rises, making the surf more inconsistent and soft. The scattered fast peaks that were here earlier have left with the WHC. The WHC . . . they’re an elite bunch—first ones out, first ones done.

     With waves much softer now, I’m glad that I had taken out the fish. Bri and I let the current take us north towards 40^th Street Tower. In the short distance, Rosecrans is a zoo of surfers. It doesn’t matter. We got our fill. We’re back up the hill by 0815.

     If I’ve learned anything this summer, I’ve learned that despite the expectation of lackluster conditions for the South Bay in the summer, sometimes there are decent winds swells here that Surfline and Magicseaweed can’t always predict. But you have to know when to gamble. It’s easy to get skunked. All I know is that whenever the WHC paddles out together, there are usually waves. That’s the right time to gamble. And the waves today gave Gary a hell of a birthday session, despite how it was supposed to be the shittiest day of surf. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.9 MON 04AUG2014

New Swells

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Time: 0730-1000

Conditions: 3-4FT, consistent, light crowd, light onshore.

Pre Blog:

     Even though KK, Bri, and I scored at Trestles on Saturday, my plan to surf this week is to stay closer to home, meaning dawn patrolling anywhere from Bolsa to Newport. As much as I love Trestles, some of the last swells haven’t had “classic” shape, so I figure it would be better to hit some HB sandbars. With new south swells on Monday and then Wednesday throughout the end of the week, I hope that staying closer to home pays off. After all, it doesn’t hurt to change it up.

Bolsa:

     Instead of taking the Huntington Beach exits, I prefer to exit the 405 S at Studebaker and take PCH to Huntington. My fellow surf blogger Pabs (R.I.P.) had recommended this route, saying that he enjoyed taking the scenic route to the surf.

     This way, I can stop at Bolsa first to see what the surf is doing. If it’s at least three feet with decent shape, I usually stay there. If not, then it’s southward I go, checking out The Cliffs, Goldenwest, the pier, and so on.

     When Bri and I reach Bolsa for a look, we see some small scattered peaks. Then the set comes in, four-foot sectiony peaks everywhere with some shoulders mixed in. Not all of the waves have shape, but there is definitely activity, definitely worth calling the search to an end and suiting up.

     The last few days have been overcast, but the sky eastward over PCH doesn’t have a cloud in it, and the sun’s rays uncomfortably heat my face as if it’s seeking revenge. I cake on extra Vertra.

     Bri’s transitioning down to one of my old big shortboards, a 6’10 Becker.

     Since I had so much fun on her 6’8 NSP, I bring it on the sand while starting my session with my Motorboat Too.

     When Bri paddles out on the Becker, I can tell that she’s not gliding over the water as fast as she usually does on the NSP. She makes it over a couple of waves, but the current carries her a little north. I walk down the beach a little before paddling out, which leaves me in perfect position in front of the lifeguard tower.

     With this odd high low-tide thing going on, it’s not varying much between two and three feet this morning, and I wonder how it will affect the waves.

     But right away, even without the big sets, consistent three footers roll through. Being picky, I chase down the lefts on every peak that’s in reach. Some of the waves are sectiony, but I snag a couple that have decent shape, either practicing some floaters or getting a couple of turns. On one I connect two turns, but they are snappy and not solid rail-to-rail carves. The waves are fun, but the faces aren’t really open and slow enough to pull those off. Instead, it’s mainly a morning of pumping to the end section for a final maneuver.

     I watch Bri, and she actually makes the transition to the Becker pretty well, catching a good handful of waves. When I ask her how it feels, she says that it’s looser and faster, but that there’s still enough volume for her to do whatever she wants on it. “Two of the hardest things,” she says, “is duckdiving and popping up, since this board is smaller.”

     I try to explain how to duckdive to her. She practices in between sets, struggling to submerge that weight under her. Maybe her body isn’t built for the upper body strength required to duckdive a big 6’10. She’ll figure it out eventually. . .

     I’m late popping up on one of the smaller waves, so I grab rail and force my nose down the line. Just then, a little bit of water throws out over my head. It’s a tube, but I hadn’t expected it, and my late popup has me eating shit. It was still nice seeing the potential of these waves. Bolsa is known for being smaller and weaker, but I like this spot because it’s mellower. I chat a little with the people around me and say good morning when I can, an old lady body boarding, an old guy longboarding, his wife. It reminds me of HB’s version of 26^th Street Manhattan Beach.

     With the lowering tide, the waves begin to stand up a little more, and then I start purling. Three waves in a row, my timing is off. I try my best to compensate for my late take offs, but upon popping up I feel like I’m sinking my board too hard and eating it on the drop. I’m thrown off so much that I sit at the bottom of the peak and let everyone sit up top while I sort things out. Am I too heavy? I have gained some weight, back to about 173. I need my Lost Mini Driver.

     Bri’s catching waves well, but she keeps getting worked on the inside. She keeps saying she can’t duckdive the board.

     The onshore wind picks up a little, which makes the peaks break a little faster. I switch to the 6’8 NSP and try to do a repeat of Saturday’s hot dogging session, but the waves I catch are closeouts. Since Bri looks defeated, I offer to swap boards with her.

     I haven’t used my Becker board in a while. It works well at Trestles, but I’m not sure how it will handle this peaky beach break. Right after switching, a peak forms on the outside. I’m in perfect position for this four-foot left. The volume creates so much stability that it slows down time on my pop up. Its full rail sends me down the line, making the first section and getting a little floater on the second. This board feels good.

     Bri gets out of the water. While I’m solo, I get another good left, and some fat asshole on a longboard drops in on me. I yell, “Ho!” and swerve towards the beach. He doesn’t even look back and just keeps going. What a dick. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had been waiting for a while.

     When I’m back on the sand, I see him snake another guy who’s on a fish. Fish guy bottom turns underneath Fatty, pushes Fatty’s rail out of the way, and surfs past him. Fatty kicks up his longboard, and Fish Guy has to hold his hand out over his head to keep from getting hit. What a fucker. Fatty and Fish Guy exchange some words.

     What a delicate balance it is. Admit it, you’d like to punch someone who snakes you in the nose, but then again, we have to share the ocean. Snaking’s gonna happen. If you’re aggro, it’ll catch up to you one way or another. I don’t want to be known for being “that guy” in the lineup, but I did kind of want to see Fatty get his ass kicked.

     Back at the wagon, Bri tells me that she had a frustrating session, getting worked on the Becker and then having poor positioning with the NSP. I explain that she’s been spoiled surfing Trestles lately, and that it’s a big change to start surfing beach break again, plus she’s on a new board.

     After changing, we head back out to the tower to “drink some tea.” The effects start coming on. The overcast is completely burned off. The sun is hot on our backs and on the sand under our feet. The morning crowd is gone, leaving only four people out. Yet, sets keep coming in. The wind has even settled down, too. It’s that ten o’clock hour when traffic and social life just seems lighter, when you feel you should be with the masses elsewhere, but instead you’re here, on a beach while everyone else is at work.

     “You wanna paddle back out?” says Bri, on our way back to the car.

     I turn around and look back. The inside is a bluish green from the sand churning up. Very light triangles of texture form on the ocean’s surface as an incoming wave bends the water. The water looks cool. I could trunk it.

     “Do you?” I say. We continue walking. I look down at the sand, listening to the sound of our shoveling footsteps.

     “No, we’ll be back here tomorrow.”

     Starting the engine, I know Bri is right, but I still have a hard time leaving this place.