Loc:
Manhattan Beach (26th)
Crew: Randy
Time:
0630-0830
Conditions:
4 FT+, light onshore, overcast, consistent, walled.
I had made the call to skip the south swell
this week because I’ve been skunked one too many times trying to catch the
swells down south. I’ve driven to Trestles during the last couple big swells to
only be faced with big closeouts, with the exception of crowded ass Lowers.
That being said, I had a lot banking on this morning’s windswell in the South
Bay. I hoped that the energy from the south would leave and finally clean
things up.
When we arrive at the 26th
Street metered lot, Bri’s already in the lower lot changing. It’s dark out, so
we can’t really see what the waves are doing, but as the horizon turns purple
to dark blue, I can see that the waves are closing out.
Last night, I had done two ding repairs on
my Lost Mini Driver. I was so stoked that I prepacked my car right after. This
morning, I’d be stoked to be back on my old board, fresh wax job and all.
Once on the sand, Randy and I make the call
to paddle out in front of the brick house because it looks like there are
better peaks there.
The grommets start making their way out,
too, but they’re mostly to the south of us, in front of the tower.
With Bri and Randy still warming up, I’m
first to rush the water. The temp has cooled off a little. The overcast sky
doesn’t help much as far as warmth. The waves are a bit more menacing than
expected. Because of the high tide, a lot of water’s moving around. In fact, it
doesn’t look much better than Tuesday. There’s a lot of funky backwash, but
conditions are a little cleaner.
The peaks are coming in a little fat, but
once they hit the sandbars or backwash, they jack up immediately and go round.
Fast round. I pull into my first closeout left, a suicide wave. Of course, I
eat shit, but I’m sucked under much longer than expected. The water’s deep.
When I’m finally released by the wave’s grip, I gasp for air, nauseas.
Bri drifts all the way down the beach. She
paddles up to me about ten minutes later, having been working on the inside.
She’s on the 6’10 Becker board.
I try to charge, going for anything that
looks like it has a shoulder, all closeouts. After an hour, I’m kind of over
it. It’s another morning of walls. I had held out the whole week for this.
Lame.
I try my frontside rail grab on another
barrel attempt. I’m sucked up and over the falls when the wave closes out.
Trapped in the chandelier, my board turns upside down, and then I feel my back
on the fins as I brace for full impact.
I resurface. No cuts no bruises.
Afterwards, I notice that my left heel keeps scraping my fin. I look down, and
my left side fin is canted hard, sticking out from my board’s outline. I
dismount and flip my board around. The fin plug is broken, barely kept together
by the glassing. Motherfucker. I had just fixed this board.
I go back in, feed the meter, and switch to
my Motorboat Too, my small groveler, the wrong board for this session.
Randy does an air attempt, a damn near
rodeo flip, but he doesn’t stick the landing. Bri leaves for work.
Paddling back out, I have a hard time
getting into waves. Not enough board. A perfect peak comes my way. It’s round
and fast. Sliding down the face, the lip is curling before I have a chance to
get to my feet, so I bail.
I resurface ashamed, so I paddle away from
the crowd. Maybe they didn’t notice.
On the shore, I see Randy holding his
broken Tokoro, the nose in one hand, a clean break.
I’m over it anyway. He tells me that the
board probably broke on the air, an attempted barrel finalized the damage.
“I saw you go for that wave,” he says. “Everyone
was watching. I don’t know what happened, but the shape was good. It just went
round after you fell.”
