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| Post session photos courtesy of Juan A. |
Loc:
Huntington Beach, Brookhurst to River Jetties
Time:
0815-1115
Crew:
Rick, Juan, Gary
Conditions:
5 – 6 FT+, foggy, hollow, dredging, current, crowded
Board:
Lost Mini Driver
The call is to surf Dog Beach since I’m on
Uncle Duty into Saturday morning. Leaving my nephew’s place, I get a call from
Juan. He, Garr, and Rick are overlooking the Huntington Cliffs. I tell them I’ll
be on the way.
It’s a legit dawn patrol, being still dark
out, but it’s so fucking foggy. After meeting up with the guys, we wait for
first light so we can see the water a little better.
The parking lot fills to capacity. Guys are
suiting up, meandering down the cliff, and disappearing into the fog as they
paddle out. Still, we can’t see shit, only the inside, which looks soft serve.
“Most of the guys have fun boards,” says
Rick. We’re looking for any clues as to what the surf might be doing.
I park at Goldenwest, grab my parking pass,
and jump in the Suburban with the fellas to hit Brookhurst instead.
“Let’s just suit up and go,” says Garr. “No
need to look at it.”
As we’re suiting up, guys are coming back
from the water with disappointed looks on their faces. I ask one of them how it
was.
“I only came back to change my leash,” he
says. “It’s a little walled out there, but there are some good ones.” He widens
his eyes. “It’s bi-i-i-ig.”
Going back to the car, I deliver the intel.
We are all still a little doubtful. The Cliffs didn’t look like it was
thumping. How big can it be?
FIFTY
YEAR OLDS NOT GIVING A FUCK:
The surf looks small, but the paddle out is
much longer than it had looked from the foggy shore. The inside is punchy. I
duckdive a couple of waves and nearly get pulled back. Already, I feel the
current dragging me south.
When I get to the lineup, some guy asks me,
“Where am I?”
“What?”
“Where did you paddle out?”
“Tower four,” I say.
He turns to his friend. “Dude! We fuckin’
drifted way south!” To my south, a migration of surfers is trying to paddle
north.
The first few waves that come in are
standard HB classic peaks, just fast teepees at four to five feet. I’m a bit
sketched. One, I can’t see shit. We can’t see the waves until they are about to
break on top of us, so timing is a bitch. Two, there’s just an eerie energy in
the air, and you can see it on everyone’s face. Today is a no bullshit day.
Meanwhile, Rick, Juan, and Gary have
different looks on their faces. Fuckin’ guys. . . I mean, they are well in their
fifties, and the gleam on their faces just reflects their childhood connection.
They’ve known each other for years, have paddled out in harrowing conditions
together, and I don’t doubt that they’re giving each other that same look that
they’ve given each other throughout the years. Just then, Rick paddles late
into a dredging hollow left. He resurfaces some distance away towards the
inside, still beaming when he gets back to the lineup. There is no fear in
their faces. Only stoke.
So the sets get bigger. It’s definitely not
a small day at all, not mooshy, not whatever Dog Beach had led us to believe.
Solitary A-frames jut out of the sea, hazy and gray, smooth and unblemished,
but harnessing HB power as soon as they stand up and break.
My penis retreats into my body like a
snail. After I duckdive a rogue wave, barely making it, I officially have a
vagina. My clitoris retreats so far into my pussy that it’s sticking out of my
asshole, which has just gone from wrinkled brown to smooth pink.
“Go, Matt!” says Gary. I look out.
Actually, I’ve been looking out. I can’t take my eyes off the outside. Yeah, it’s
a big fucking right. I paddle out and duckdive into the face before it’s even
breaking. It’s a straight up bitch move.
My excuse is that I’m picky. If I’m going
to risk absolute obliteration, I better make sure that I’m in the perfect spot
and not late. I know how fast these waves are, and I’m not gonna air drop on a
day like today. Plus, I do not want to get caught in the impact zone on one of
these waves. I may not be able to make it back out.
And these Venice Vets are just thriving in
these conditions. One by one, I watch Juan go. Rick goes, who supposedly doesn’t
like barrels, and is pulling in. Gary’s brazen enough to hang out towards the
inside to take everything that’s rideable.
Juan comes back saying, “I almost made it
out of that one.”
Rick goes for broke and paddles super late
on a left, somehow still covering some distance. “I air dropped,” he says when
he comes back. “Almost didn’t make it.”
I finally pull the trigger on a smaller
right. It’s shouldery, so I wind up for a backhand snap. I have so much speed
that my tail slides out on the shoulder like I’m grinding a rail. Had I ridden
out of it, it would’ve been a cool manuever.
Resurfacing, I’m caught in the impact zone
of the next wave. I duckdive as deep as I can and actually make it out the
back, but the fucking wave sucks back and pulls me under. Not as bad as getting
pounded. I don’t know how, but my shitty duckdives are actually working, and I make
it out fairly unscathed.
Juan calls me into another wave. It’s a big
right. I scratch and kick and get the drop. It’s stretching out and about to
close, so I jump over the lip and land behind it. Looking out back, everyone is
darting outside. Here comes the roguer.
I had once said that big perfectly shaped
waves are sometimes scarier than walls. Perfection can be power sometimes, and
I’m in the impact zone of a huge perfect HB peak. I’m going to have to pay this
one in full, I’m thinking. I debate on stalling my paddle to duck the stampede
or charge it to make it over. I paddle as hard as I can. The wave is big and
slowly building as it approaches. I make it over. I look behind me and remember
that Gary’s on the inside. The next wave is even bigger.
Once the set is over, I see Gary on the
inside with a half dozen other surfers. Ten minutes later, he’s on shore.
Juan takes a long right and disappears. The
fog slightly dispersers. We’re in front of the River Jetties.
I back out of a huge right. Rick takes it.
I assume the worst. He’s eaten shit, there’s no way he could have—
“Woohoo!” he says as he kicks out and over
the shoulder. Barrel. He just got a backside barrel.
I beat the next set, and now Rick is gone.
I try to harness the energy of my far-gone testicles and take some waves. I see
other guys who have also lost their penises, pulling back on the big ones. Some
guys are still pulling in, even on the closeouts, backhand, comfortable in
these conditions.
I finally take a right and plan to grab rail
and pig dog, but my plans go awry. Somewhere between grabbing my rail, the wave
just doubles up, and I do a forward somersault with the curling lip. Since the
bitch in me says that now might be a good time to find the guys, I catch the
whitewash in and head back towards the Suburban.
It’s a bit of a walk. I even have to paddle
through the river mouth to get to the other side. When I reach the Suburban, I
find Rick there, too. “I thought they’d be here,” he says. Gary and Juan are still
out there somewhere, so Rick and I start over at tower four.
RESET:
I think about how I had surfed a slab in
Java with razor sharp reef. I also think about the big days in Manhattan Beach
that I had surfed. Despite all those experiences, I’m out of my league today.
A guy paddles into a set-wave left going
backhand. He grabs rail as the glassy green lip swirls over him. I turn around
to see if he makes it out. He resurfaces on the inside. With a face full of
anger, he slaps the water and curses out loud. It’s that kind of morning.
In the distance, Juan is paddling towards
us. He’s been in the water the whole time and has just paddled all the way over
from River Jetties.
I had said that I don’t feel comfortable
going backside on huge bombs, and I’m lucky enough to snag some of the rare
lefts that come through. I pull in on a medium sized left, and the lip throws
out over me. I’m in the tube but a bit too deep and get pinched at the end.
Juan says that it had lined up nicely, too.
Fuck. If I could make it out of one of those, just get one barrel, this whole
session will be worth it, despite losing my penis and all.
I catch another left and pull in. Pinched
again.
I notice Gary’s purple board on shore. He’s
walking towards the Suburban. I wave. He wave’s back.
With the incoming tide, the waves soften up
a bit more and become more manageable. On my attempts to pull in I see that the
waves aren’t going hollow, so I work on my frontside wraps. At the three-hour
mark, we call the session.
#
Over breakfast, we learn what had happened
to everyone. Juan caught a long right and got caught by the current after that.
He never left the water and made it all the way back to tower four. Gary made
it back out after getting pounded by that set. He had become victim of the BMS
sandwich: board, me, sand.
And then there are the war stories, the
battles, the best waves, the barrels. I can only sit there and chew my food
while I listen, wide eyed, in awe of them.
