HOW MY ENDLESS SUMMER ENDED, MON 18AUG2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Klaude & Dais

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, walled, consistent.

     Yes, my summer has just about ended. Reason being, I had to go to Sacramento to help my Aunt and Uncle from Maui move in to their new place. I was landlocked for a whole week, stuck with the Sacto Dry Walkers. I felt utterly useless. Forced to go to the mall, I searched for any kind of surf paraphernalia, but the closest thing I could find was skater stuff.

     Buff inland dudes with spiky hair, tank tops, and tatted arms patrolled the mall. I stood in my flip flops, wishing they were grimy with sand and squishy with saltwater.

     But now I’m back. It’s Monday morning, and I’m ready to finally get wet again.

     Bri’s not feeling well, so I let her sleep in. It’s already light out. Sometimes I beat myself up when I’m late for surf, but I’m a lot easier going this morning. Late for what? I plan on doing nothing the rest of the day anyway.

     When I get to 26^th Street, I can see that lines are coming in from on top of the hill. The feeling is almost foreign having been gone for a week, standing atop and watching the surf with my arms crossed, the morning air behind me. The surf looks a little walled. Only two guys are out. The signs are bad, but I have to head out there.

     Bruce, one of the few guys who ripS on a foamie, is out. I recognize some other faces, too. Only five of us. I go out and sit away from everyone else. I’ve been gone too long, not just from Sac but from surfing my spot. I might be on the verge of losing my local pass.

     I watch the other guys go. The waves look walled to me, but these guys are making the best of them. One guy just flies down the line so fast, getting distance on the racy walls.

     I see Klaude on the sand. When he paddles out, he says, “It’s much bigger than yesterday.” There’s fire in his eyes. What looks like shapeless surf to me looks like a fun-filled morning to him. He catches a frontside right. The wave actually holds shape as I watch the back of his head go down the line, and then he cuts back towards the pocket, throwing out a small bucket. When he resurfaces, I throw up six fingers.

     We see Dais on the sand, and this signals my first legit wave. It’s a left. I pop up and pump down the face of the wave. It’s an open-face wall, but I bottom turn, climb it, and try to throw my tail up and through the lip as it curls down. Coming out of the turn, I try to maintain balance over the bumpy whitewash. Dais is paddling out off to the side. I regain my balance, point to him, and smile.

     With the three of us out, Klaude announces that he has to leave to work. “I don’t wanna go,” he says to the sky, as if a higher power could give an almighty “OK,” and allow Klaude to stay. “One more,” he says. He catches a wave and paddles back. “One more.”

     When Klaude leaves, more people start coming out. I guess everyone woke up late today.    

     The surf is still consistent. Dais gets more than I, going left and right, moving throughout the lineup.

     I get a decent right, getting one good backhand hack. After that, the wind turns onshore a little. The waves aren’t holding shape anymore, but we’re stubborn, trying to end the session with a good one.

     My last wave is far from good, but I ride it straight and all the way to shore. It’s 1000. I’ve surfed for three hours, despite the so-so conditions. It’s just good to be back in the water.

     Afterwards, Bri meets Dais and me for breakfast at Mandy’s. It’s so good to be home. I notice that they’ve posted new hours, now closing at three in the afternoon.

     “Why so early?” I ask the waitress.

     “I was wondering about that, too,” she says.

     That’s funny. Shouldn’t she know?

     Bri and I just chill for the rest of the day. I haven’t been home for a week. I’ve missed my woman, my couch, my TV, my internet, my fridge full of food.

     Bri makes chicken piccata for dinner. Setting down our plates in front of the TV, we start discussing our Netflix options for the night.

     The phone rings. It’s eight thirty in the evening. It’s my sister. I have a feeling something’s wrong. I pick up the phone and say, “Is everything okay?”

     “I got a call from LAPD,” she says. Words leave her mouth with straining weight. “The landlord found Mom . . .”

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.15 SUN 10AUG2014

Bri took this pic from the cliffs as we were leaving. Smallest day of the swell, but still excellent conditions.

The Jalama Sessions

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Gary

Time: 0630-0800

Conditions: 2-4 FT, soft, inconsistent.

     Last night, some ghetto ass motherfuckers were up late, drinking by the trashcans that are about twenty yards away from our tent. “Tent.” If you see a tent at night chances are that someone’s in it . . . sleeping. Leave it to inconsiderate motherfuckers, little wannabe gangsters at that. Their meeting of the minds finally ended when someone said, “No, fuck that! I don’t play that shit.” I heard footsteps of the guy walking away with a friend.

     “Come back here, Pussy! Say that shit to my face!”

     But now, at 0530, I’m up. Gary’s up. He walks down to the toilets. When he returns, he looks much happier than he did when he had left. I ask Bri if she wants to roll, but she barely budges. She says she’ll sleep in.

     Now, it’s Balls Deep and Donny Duckbutter on a mission to take over Jalama, but that’s not entirely true. . . .

     Once we hit the sand, it’s a slow stroll towards the Y Spot. Other surfers are ahead of us, making their morning hike, too. A few heads are already out. Gary and I don’t admit it, but at least I can say for myself that I’m fucking tired. In my 4/3 wetsuit, my back muscles feel constricted and tight. My left tricep is already burning just from holding the surfboard.

     The march there feels like forever, and when we get there we see that the crowd is rather small . . . just like the peaks. Like yesterday morning, the waves are coming in at three feet, maybe four on the big ones. Surfers start off with one strong entry move, and then most of their waves fizzle out.

     Entering the water, I feel how tight my back muscles are again. I catch a small inside right, but it mooshes out before I can get a turn. I’m not even mildly aware of where Gary is. At this point, I’m not expecting bigger sets or a good surf performance. I’m just out here because it’s Jalama, because this place has given so much over the last two days, and because not paddling out on our last day is like wasting a free meal.

     I sit wide like I usually do. It takes a while, but a four-foot wave comes my way. People are watching. I turn, kick, and wait to slide down, but I don’t. . . . The wave leaves me behind. My timing was off. I blew it. Everyone else watches the wave peel, unridden.

     Gary sits with everyone else. I go there, too. Finally, I get some waves, but I’m surfing like shit. It doesn’t matter that I’m hydrated and well nourished. My body screams REST. Other guys start sitting on me. No respect, but that’s okay. I’m not surfing like I deserve it.

     Towards the last half hour, I get a solid left, but some skinny dude with long hair drops in on me. I’m not in the mood to hoot him off, so I hope he sees me and kicks out. He does a tight cutback in the pocket, sees me, and then kicks out. And of course, the wave mooshes out for the second turn.

     I paddle back out next to him, wondering if he’ll turn my way and apologize. He doesn’t.

     A little later, Gary and I are going for our last Jalama waves. I go right, and Skinny is on my shoulder, trying to paddle into it. When he sees me, he whips his hair and looks away in disgust. Like it’s my fault? Anyway, I ride the wave in, settling for a checkturn to end the Jalama Sessions.

     The idea of leaving such a great surf destination isn’t what’s on my mind. Unfastening my leash, I exhale hard. It’s been fun, but I can’t go on.

     On the walk back, I watch Gary pick through polished sand stones that are scattered along the beach. He picks up the ones with holes in them. I search the shore for sand dollars that Bri had been wanting. I can’t find any. I feel like a bad boyfriend for not searching harder for one since we’ve been here.

     At camp, Bri already has some things packed up. Folding the tents takes the longest time, but we’re on our way within an hour.

Now I know. . .

    Before leaving Jalama, we park by the cliff and take pictures by the cross. We can see Cracks below. The water’s so glassy, and the peaks are still coming in cleaner than ever. It looks bigger from up here. Only a few guys are still out, splitting peaks. They look hollow from here, but it could be a vantage point trick. Seeing the surf, I feel well rested, like I could go for another session. We’re leaving, and the conditions are still pristine.

Peaks, marching in like soldiers.

Could've stayed there for hours, taking photos.

     Crawling through the barbwire fence, our feet crush the gravel as we approach Gary’s Suburban. An empty road lies before us. It’s time to go home. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER (double), PT.14 SAT 09AUG2014

The Jalama Sessions

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Bri, Gary, and Russ

Time: 0645-0815

Conditions: 2-4 FT, crowded, soft, inconsistent.

     We had pumped up the surf to Russ all yesterday afternoon and evening. Awestruck tales of nonstop rippable peaks. If I were him, I wouldn’t have believed them. Yesterday was a day where you just had to be there to understand. It was a day that Gary, Bri, and I would never forget. I can see it now, us in the future talking about “that day.” Prior to it, the best Cali session that I had ever had was a huge day at Trestles, but yesterday was better because there were both lefts and rights, and the crowd factor was minimal.

     This morning, upon waking up, it already looks like the surf has tapered down a bit. It was expected. As bummed as I should be, I’m not. Sometimes, trips are about expectations. I think the minimum expectations for yesterday only quantified the stoke that developed when the surf exceeded expectations tenfold.

     We head towards The Y Spot a little bit earlier than yesterday, but the Saturday crowd has already doubled. Surfers stand over the cliffs by the cross, checking the surf. The peaks are still clean with good shape, the water even glassier than yesterday, but the size is the issue. This morning’s later high tide isn’t helping much either. Now the tall tales we had given Russ must be even harder to believe.

     I paddle out first, and I get two rights. Both offer decent entry hacks but mush out to nothing afterwards. With more people and longer lulls, getting waves is so much harder than yesterday. Still, I sit wide just south of the Y. Bri has the right board, catching the insiders, but Russ and Gar are stagnant like everyone else, waiting for the set. The surf is inconsistent. It’s hard. Frustrating.

     Gary paddles up to me and says, “I’m kind of over it.” We make the comparison. It’s easily a foot smaller than it was yesterday. “I’m gonna head back to camp and cook breakfast” he says. “Burritos!” He catches a wave in and starts heading back towards camp. A few waves later, the rest of us follow suit.

     Russ’s Channel Islands friends are heading over for a board demo, so he has to get ready for that. Bri and I change, head to the Jalama store, and get some breakfast supplies for Gary.

     So the epic conditions are no more. Limited to one day of firing surf, I’m still stoked for what we had experienced. Sitting up on the bluffs, looking out at the ocean, Bri shoots me a subtle smile. She’s happy. I’m happy. The surf is small, but oh well. Life is good.

#

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Bri & Gary

Time: 1030-1330

Conditions: 3-5 FT, low tide, consistent.

     Bri and I head over to the C.I. demo, which is at the beach in front of the main campgrounds. As much as I’d like to demo a board, the surf out front sucks. Frothing groms sign out boards, surfing the inside closeouts. Even some Euro tourists checkout some boards, riding them on their bellies. I walk to the back of the demo truck and ask the guy if I can check out the boards.

     “I can grab one for you,” he says.

     “Uhh, can I just come up there?”

     “What are you looking for?” 

     I really just want to nerd out to them and see what they have, but I’m stuck. “You guys got the Weirdo Ripper?”

     He pulls one out. I hold it. I wish he would have just let me go up there. I give it back.

     After the lack of hospitality, Bri and I decide to take a walk towards The Y Spot, not expecting much. The main beach break is howling onshore, the surf miserable. As we make our way in front of the cliffs, the wind isn’t as strong here. The water looks much calmer. In the distance, we see consistent waves coming in and a small group of surfers who have them to themselves. 

     Mother of God. We need to get out there.

     Gary has a Modelo in his hand when we reach the C.I. Demo site again. “It’s working,” I tell him. “We’ll see you out there.” Since the surf is smaller than yesterday, I ask Gary if I can sample his Lost RV.

     What had begun as a lackluster day of surf is now a mad dash to paddle out again. How could the conditions have changed like this? The switch happened under our radar, and guys have been scoring it for how long? How long has it been working without us on it?

     It’s a surgical strike this time. No setting up an area of operation (AO), just boards and water.

     When we reach the surf, we see that there’s some texture on the water from the onshore wind, but the shape and quality is still good. The surf has even picked up in size again from this morning. In the ten o’clock hour, we’ve seemed to catch the surf at its best with the tide much lower than it was this morning.

     Bri and I paddle out into a pack of groms, just a fraction of the size of the crowd this morning. There are so many waves. A left comes my way immediately, four foot plus. The RV has so much volume that I’m surprised at how early I get into the wave. Sliding down the face, I get into my stance, but my front foot slides off of the unwaxed nose. I blow it. Resurfacing, I realize that I didn’t take Gary’s wax job into account. Similar to my brother, he doesn’t use much wax. My stance being more novice and wider, I need more wax towards the front of the board. Also, I didn’t think the surf would be this big.

     I surf my next wave more conservatively, being more mindful on foot placement. It’s another set wave, and the mid tide makes the face fast and vertical. I still manage a deep bottom turn and a tight in-the-pocket cutback. Yesterday, I had to work hard for my second and third turns, but the RV’s volume just pushes me back towards the open face, and I get carves with ease.

     Gary’s on the sand warming up. A minute later, he paddles out. “I can’t believe how good it is,” he says. And just like yesterday, the I-can’t-believe-it nods return. On a bomb left, I’m in Gary’s line paddling back out. He pops up and stalls in the pocket to avoid running me over. The wave almost looks like it’s going to throw out over him and go hollow. He waits for me to duckdive before pumping down the line. When I resurface, I see him finish off his wave on the inside.

     Now I’m mad at myself. I don’t need all this volume or the twenty-one inches of width. Too much board. I should have stayed loyal to my Mini Driver. “I’m gonna go in and put more wax on my board,” I say to Bri.

     “You need wax?” says a guy sitting on my right.

     “Yeah.”

     “Here,” he says. “I’m done with it.” He hands me a thick chunk, maybe half of a single bar.

     I thank him repeatedly, saying how I doubt anyone would be this cool in the South Bay. I pass on the next couple waves, applying as much wax as possible, not just on the nose but on the whole board. I still miss my Mini Driver, but the wax helps.

     Gary and I plan out the session, talking about how we’ll surf as long as we can, but we need to make sure that we’re back before the Jalama store closes at 1900.

     The window of super consistency closes. The surf is still good, but it slows down a little.

     A dark-skinned guy with long hair paddles out. He doesn’t smile and keeps to himself. I nod and smile, and he forces a nod back. I don’t know what happens, but a couple of waves later I hear him on the inside, saying, “Go back to Rincon you fuckin’ souther.”

     The grom who he’s directing his tirade to paddles towards me, away from him. Gary’s right next to the Angry Guy. He looks at Gary, either waiting for him to join in or stand up for the grom. The grom paddles past me towards his friend. They chat in lowered voices.

     “I didn’t do anything,” says the grom. “I just went down the line.”

     Now the energy in the lineup is kind of weird, and really, it’s not necessary with this minimum crowd and fairly consistent surf. There’s enough for everyone. I’m also concerned about Bri, who’s working her way towards him.

     A couple waves later, the long-haired dude is going off again, cursing at the kelp, saying, “Let go of me you fucking bitch!”

     As Bri passes him and works her way towards me, she says, “Did you hear that guy?”

     “Yeah.”

     “He gave me props on earlier on a wave.”

     Well, so the angry guy is nice to Bri. I guess a pretty face still goes a long way in the water.

     A couple waves later, Angry Man goes in and perches on his chair on the sand. We had thought that we could surf until sundown, but into the second hour, we all start to get tired. When Bri and Gary leave, I swap out boards with Gary, getting a chance to demo his Channel Islands New Flyer.

     Bri and Gary walk away while I paddle out for more waves. The groms have left for the day, leaving just a few people in the water with me. The wind picks up onshore just a little, but the shape is still good.

     I catch waves just as big as I did earlier, but they feel different on the New Flyer. The board releases much easier on the bat tail compared to my Mini Driver’s rounded pin. That extra torque that I usually have to do at the end of my carves to get some release isn’t necessary on the New Flyer. The dimensions on this board are just as big as mine, so it feels good to ride a board with the same volume but just a different design. Eventually, I’ll have to get a good standard shortboard that’s made to my dimensions.

     I only last an hour surfing without my crew. The onshore wind is officially howling now. There’s chop on the water, and the waves are running away much faster. It’s even harder to duckdive. My hamstring cramps. I’m done. Walking away from the surf, a few stragglers head towards the Y Spot, logging time for their evening sesh. Even though the surf isn’t as good as it was earlier, it is still rideable and worthy.

     I’d like to think of myself as a surfing machine, but yesterday’s epic session has me more drained than expected. Back at the campsite, Bri and Gar are chilling out, chatting with the sun still high and bright in their faces. We have dinner at the Jalama Store again, but this time Gary grabs us a table where we can watch the river mouth break. Even with the high tide, right handers are peeling. The wind has switched offshore. The sun, now lower, casts its golden glow, a classic California sunset. Other people walk their dogs and hike towards the brush. The scene outside of the campsite is so remote—hills, cliffs, and wild vegetation. This is what the real California looks like.