THE PIER, WED 29OCT2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach Pier

Time: 0745-0900

Conditions: 2 FT, offshore, small, inconsistent.

     I had told fellow surf blogger, Goofy Kook, that I’d make an effort to check him out by the pier. Makes sense after yesterday’s orgy at 26^th Street. Plus, the surf has dramatically dropped in size. In the past, I wouldn’t have even paddled out on a day like this, but I have decent small-wave equipment. This morning, it’s my checkerboard Kainalu fish.

     Scoring parking near Highland and Marine, I head down to the sand and draw a beeline for the pier. With a later start this morning, the sky’s already bright, and the sand’s a blazing beige.

     There are heads at 26^th Street. Surprisingly, the breaks between there and the pier are desolate. There are a few longboarders and one SUP guy.

     At the pier, there’s a longboarder sitting deep next to the pilings, two beginners just wide of him.

     The last time I had surfed the pier was my first lesson with Rick A. He took me here. I remember how the water was so green, and I was so “green” that I couldn’t even sit on my fucking board. That was all of lesson one, just sitting on the damn thing.

     I paddle out and look around. No surf signs in the parking lot. I don’t see GK.

     The longboarder sitting on the pier catches a long right, so I swoop in to see if I can get one, too. Even though it’s flat, I’m in awe as I paddle up to this structure. The shift in the tide makes the pier look like it’s moving backwards; I catch a short moment of vertigo. I sit and wait, but nothing breaks here. After ten minutes, I paddle more north.

     There’s a guy on the inside teaching a chick how to surf on a Costco foamie. As a wave approaches, he pushes her outside so she can get out of the impact zone.

     “I don’t think—” she says, before the wave breaks on her, churning her back up in a tangled mess of hair. Soon afterwards, they’re walking back on shore, boards in tow.

     A different longboarder catches a rogue wave. He bends his back knee hard on the bottom turn while throwing his limps up as if he were clutching ape-hanger handle bars. He snaps his board into the line he wants to draw, and when he does it, he really uses his hips and shoulders, never losing balance or being awkward. Style. I appreciate good surfing on any craft. Looking smooth and good in the transitions isn’t easy.

     My wave of the day is a left. I catch one of the tiny bombs, pump down the line, get a small floater, and end it with a layback turn. I don’t right out of it smoothly, but I hop towards the nose to force my board into the rolling whitewash for a legit finish.

     The smooth-styling longboarder’s on the inside, holding his board, making sure we don’t hit each other. I smile and put my palm out. He smiles back, jumps on his board, and goes out again. 

THE WORD, TUE 28OCT2014

Loc: MB, 26^th Street

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 3-4 FT, offshore, fast, sectiony.

     The word must’ve gotten out that it was fun yesterday. My beloved brick house peak is now overrun, and it’s not just the usual suspects. Guys who I’ve seen surf way further north, from 34^th Street to Rosecrans, are here, too. Fuckin’ A.

     I try to battle it out but get frustrated and head towards the tower. Vietnam Vet Mike is out here, and he’s able to glide into waves on his longboard. I’m either pulling out for guys or out of position.

#

     Thinking back to this session, I don’t remember one memorable ride. I remember thinking about how much I need to change things up and surf a different break. 

THE MARTYR, MON 27OCT2014

Loc: MB, 26^th Street

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 5 FT+, offshore, consistent, fast, round.

     I expect the swell to have backed off, since it’s short-to-mid period. Paying more attention to fins and doing some personal research(thanks to surfscience.com), I switch out the large SA-2 side fins for the slightly smaller Matt Biola GMB composites. I also switch to the smaller Q-R trail fins. With smaller surf, today should be more of a carving session. No need to have too much grip and drive.

     The high schoolers are sitting in front of the 26^th Street tower. One of them is surfing the right. It stands up towards the inside for a fast whitewash ride. I figure I’ll paddle out just north of them in front of the brick house to get a nice gap away from them.

     It should be more crowded this morning, but maybe yesterday’s walls have kept people away. There’s always the high-tide window much later, so it could be empty for any reason.

     There’s this local guy who’s probably in his mid twenties. I don’t know him, but he knows some of the O.G.’s here. We’ve never talked. I see him catch a left, and he pauses and watches the lip fold over in front of him. He tosses his head in frustration and jumps ship. I know the feeling. He’s probably thinking, I should have just pulled in. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve done the same.

     The horizon’s doing its usual 0700 fiery blaze. The water on the inside is a combo of fizzing champaign with smooth unmolested pools of peach, almost as if there were clouds in the water, too.

     A thirty yard gap keeps the kids away, and I’m surprised to have waves to myself here.

     My first wave is a right. As I bottom turn, I look behind me and watch the lip curl over. Fuck. Should have pulled in. Always feels sketchy on my backhand. The next right doesn’t go round, so I set up for one clean power hack before it closes out.

     After sitting out back a little while longer, bigger sets start coming in. The swell’s backed off but only by a hair. I take off on a bomb right and bottom turn to set myself up. The face is jacking up with uncomfortable size. This is where my inexperience shines. My brain’s shooting off signals to bail in self preservation, but I grab rail and stick close to the curling face. I pull in right on the highline, slotting myself just under the lip. There’s marbleized foam in the wave’s face, the pink sky, and groms paddling over the shoulder, sleek as seals. I always doubt that I’ll make it out. I’m too deep. Everything goes black from there, and then I’m sucked under.

     And this is pretty much my barrel experience. I never make it out, just once at Brookhurst/HB over a year ago. Other than that, my middle name is Obliteration. Bali, East Java, Porto, everywhere I’ve surfed. Always almost, close but no cock. “It’ll just happen for you,” was what my brother had told me.

     I’ll tell you that it’s cool, it’s okay, and I want to believe it. There’s training value in rides like these. They’re not all for nothing. Keep telling myself that.

     Sitting back outside, I honestly do feel stoked though. It was close. Mastership through repetition. I’m not hurt, and it was kind of fun.

     From here, I flip the switch. Martyrdom it is, suicide barrels, Allah Akbar. I push my earplugs in tight. No turns. On the next right, I hunker down and wait for it to go round, but it doesn’t. Now that’s also inexperience—reading the wave incorrectly and wasting an open-face maneuver.

     I get a left that’s just as throaty as the right. On my frontside, I’m driving along the soupy face in a tight little cavern, but I get body slammed again.

     The surf is consistent where I’m at. The groms aren’t getting many waves. They paddle towards me to keep position but they don’t paddle through the gap between us. I may not be getting barreled, but the kids are actually giving me room this morning.

     When the session’s over, I’m back at my car unscrewing my fins. Wrong choice. Should’ve kept the same setup as yesterday, but that doesn’t mean that I would have done any better. Put any guy who’s good out today, and he/she would have gotten tubed.

     Listening to some jazz on the radio on the ride back home, I still feel good about today’s session. You don’t always have to make it out to feel fulfilled.