MR. CLEAN, THU 02APR015

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 28^th Street                     

Time: 0700-0830

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, crowded.

Board: Motorboat Too

     After having been gone for nearly two weeks for work, I show up to Manhattan Beach, expecting a mooshy 2-3 foot session. Motorboat Too it is, my shortboard with the low rocker, suitable for chest-high point break and beach break moosh.

     I’m hoping to run into some familiar faces I haven’t seen in a while, but the main peak is already dominated by groms. Must be spring break.

     Instead of the smaller surf that’s forecasted, the surf’s easily a foot bigger. The peaks aren’t coming in in clean A-frames but more sectiony with once-in-a-while corners.

     My paddling muscles are forced to reactivate when I paddle out. My body resists as if to say “this is new.” It takes a while to make it to the lineup. Regression is the reality.

     The main peak is firing, but it’s inconsistent where I’m at. My first wave is a closeout right. My next wave is a left. I cutback but it mooshes out afterwards. When the sets come in, they stand up into fast sectiony wedges. I pass on these since they don’t look rideable. Plus, I’m on the wrong board. I should’ve busted out the Lost Mini Driver.

     The best I do is catch a couple of long lefts all the way to shore, but I’m just cutting back the whole time. I’m thinking that I’m doing pretty well for myself and for what the surf is offering, and that’s when I hear a hoot. To my north at the next peak over, a recent local transplant is paddling for one of those fast wedges. The wave should be too fast, but he pops up, slides down the face, and pumps himself right underneath the lip as the lip curls over him. He’s in there, forehand and crouching, rear hand in the face of the wave like he’s pulling it along, forcing it to run with him. I lose sight as he pulls out into the flats before the closeout.

     I wonder if I’ve been surfing these waves wrong this whole morning. That guy got out clean. I catch the next wave and pull in. Its shoulder is soft, but I stall in the pocket and get a little swirl over my head before I’m pinched. Although, this is nothing new. I’ve been getting pinched like this for a while, unsure whether I’m progressing any more or not.

     Jealous of Mr. Clean’s barrel, and having seen him pull into a wave that would have otherwise looked too fast or passable, I get another swift reality check that barrels will always be the pinnacle of surfing.

WHEN THE WORD IS OUT, WED 18MAR2015

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street                            

Time: 1100-1230

Crew: Dais

Conditions: 2-4 FT, onshore, peaky, crowded.   

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     When the word is out, it doesn’t matter that I’m meeting Dais in the middle of the week at an hour when people should be at work. Walking down 45^th, surfers are stretched along the whole lineup all the way to 42^nd, and I can see why. There are decent peaks coming in. I won’t say it’s a “good” day of surf, just average. The wind is still a little onshore, some of the sets are walled, but average in the South Bay can be fun, too, so long as you catch the right wave.

     Dais catches a right on the inside. I paddle up to him. “Looks fun!” he says. Indeed he’s right. Three surfer chicks sit in the lineup. Bet they think it’s fun, too. So does the lady in the pink Body Glove wetsuit, the guy on the blue longboard, and just about the other twenty people sitting here. Fuck. They know. People have been spreading the word.

     A long A-frame rolls in. I’m on the left. The wave folds at the peak like an envelope, a little too fast and racy. Once again, it’s about being on the shoulder. I’m in better position for the next one, but the shoulder turns to moosh. Just a little less tide, and I should be here to surf it when the window changes.

     The crowd gets to me, so I paddle further south towards Rosecrans. No one’s here for a reason. I watch the vultrous surfers compete over 42^nd Street peaks. One right. I get one backhand snap here and paddle back north.

     Dais leaves. Too much competition here. I paddle towards 45^th and holy shit, it’s just as packed. Like a shotgun blast mixed with noobs and rippers, all scattered around one peak. Crowded at noon? Yeah, the word is out.

     I paddle to the top of the wave and miraculously snag a right. It’s still a little soft, but I’m in good position, so I get two snaps and kick out.

     Paddling through the lineup, I start to feel uneasy. No love here. No crew, no buddies, no hooting each other on rides. Right now this spot is like the area in prison where all the stragglers who don’t belong to a gang hang out, every man for himself. I’m over it but still want more waves.

     The wind picks up, and the overcast gets thicker. The ocean goes from lightly textured to choppy. I’m done.

     Changing at my car, I feel exhausted. I’ve been surfing consistently since my session last Friday at Trestles. Having surfed twice yesterday, I think that will be it for me for the day. I’ll probably skip the gym, too. All I know is that if it was this crowded today, I can’t imagine what tomorrow will bring. I’ve hovered over here to Porto in the last couple weeks, so I think it’s time to return to my favorite local break where faces are more familiar. Even though the word is out, I’ll feel much better surfing there.

ODD SHIFTS (double), TUE 17MAR2015

 

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street                            

Time: 1130-1300

Crew: Gary & Dais

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, onshore, peaky.  

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     I didn’t plan on surfing today because of the high tide in the morning and the lame 1-3 foot poor-to-fair surf report, but Dais texts me and says that he’ll be at Porto. Since I haven’t seen him in a while, I head out to meet him.

     I’m not expecting much, but surprisingly there’s a three foot peak breaking at 45^th Street. The wind is light onshore but strong enough to create some texture. The tide looks low and about to drain out, but there’s enough water on the surface to provide some shouldery peaks.

     Taking a gamble, I opt to wear trunks and a rashguard, hoping that this heatwave will keep me warm despite how cool the water still is. I paddle out just north of the sandwich shack and spot Dais right away.

     It’s been a while, so we catch up a little. He and his girl Ashley had moved into an apartment together, work is good, so on and so forth. Unfortunately, he has to bail about fifteen minutes after I get there. Fortunately, I’m blessed with a couple good waves right off the bat.

     It’s been a while since I’ve surfed Porto on a shortboard. Feeling light with only trunks and a rashy, I pop up on a racy left, pump hard, and just fly down the line. I get a quick check snap, redirect, and get a slashing carve on the dissolving shoulder. I feel like brown lightning.

     I’m thinking that this is gonna be a good window, and that I’ve still got plenty of waves to catch. Just then, I see a guy who looks like Gary paddling out just south of me. When he gets closer, I realize it is Gary.

     Turns out he took a surf break instead of a lunch break. “Looks fun!” he says. “Saw some nice peaks.”

     And then the wind picks up just a tad more. The lowering tide reaches a level that just makes the waves more sectiony and racy. Gary paddled out at the wrong window. I had just barely got it before it turned. Dais. He was the one who was out here at the right time.

#

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street                            

Time: 1730-1845

Crew: Gary

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, light onshore, swampy.

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     I meet up with fellow DRC member Jonathan Macias. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, let alone surfed with him. Since he had gotten married, well . . . he just stopped surfing. Over coffee he opens up to me and says, “You’re the oldest friend I have. I’ve known you since high school. My other friends, you know them, we don’t even talk anymore.”

     “I’m sorry for being a dick to you when you stopped surfing,” I say. “I know I gave you a hard time.”

     “Yeah you did.”

     We sip our coffee. I had been blinded for a while by my disappointment in him, but I can’t let surfing define my friendships. Some people move on to other things. I’m glad we had this chat.

     The whole time we’re catching up, I’m watching the waves. It looks fun. Textured peaks are coming in, rippable rights and lefts. Gary runs out of the parking lot and hits the sand. I halt him and introduce them to each other. By 1730, I’m paddling out.

     I tell Gary I had seen him catch a pretty long left earlier. The crowd’s thin this evening. Waves are coming in, but I can tell that they’re getting kind of soft. The sets are racy and break further out. Gary’s on the peak but yells for me to go. It’s one of those waves where you have to be right on the shoulder because it runs away so fast. I pop up and pump along its racy face, finishing off with a little floater. No turns. But on the way back out, I catch a bonus insider and actually crank out a turn on the dissolving shoulder. I paddle back smiling, having met my quota.

     There are some longboarders further south who are selling the peak in front of 42^nd. We paddle over there and get front row seats to a guy on a Costco Foamie cruising down the shoulder of a slotty left. Looks good. We’d like one, too, but the conditions change right away. Too much water. Waves are coming in soft. The sets break further out but moosh out on the drop. Gary goes in. Stubborn, I wait for one good wave to end it, but I end up catching a closeout and going straight.

     Yet, I’m stoked. Gary and I watch an overcast sunset on the horizon. The sun a half tangerine, glowing and turning the sky pink. The peaks we had seen are now shore rollers and unsurfable. It’s been a while since I pulled a double sesh at home, let alone an evening sesh. For once, I’m selecting surf windows, taking advantage of the best times to go out. Not a first shifter but an odd shifter, and running into Gary today was a bonus.

     Driving home, I don’t feel skunked. I caught some fun rides and didn’t have to drive very far for them.