SEAWEED MONSTER, MON 29JUN2015

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street

Time: 0645-0915

Crew: Rick

Conditions: 3-4 FT, choppy, crowded, seaweed

     Bri and I score free parking and take a look at the surf. It’s a bit choppy, and the peaks are a little fast and racy. “Could use a little more water,” I say.

     “I don’t feel like surfing today,” says Bri.

     I change into boardshorts at the car. We go back and forth about her decision not to surf, but I don’t guilt trip her. I understand. “You can run.” My phone goes off. It’s a text from Rick. He’s paddling out in front of the bathrooms at Porto.

     We change locations and score another free spot on Highland Avenue. I hope that I won’t regret my decision to trunk it despite the air still feeling cool.

     I spot Rick in the lineup. He’s going right, dismounting his board in front of a guy caught on the inside. The surfer can’t make it out. Rick tries to paddle but is stuck on the inside. He gets off his board and messes around with his leash.

     Bri begins her run while I walk through the water. It’s cool. The whitewash hits my belly, and I turn into a pussy. Mounting my board, I’m poked by some seaweed. Not even halfway out, and my leash is weighed down by mopheads of it. I’m sluggish, forced to duckdive two waves. I sneak up on Rick and surprise him.

     “Lots of seaweed,” he says. “I got all tangled up just now.”

     “I know. I saw!”

     And then something just happens, a phenomenon. Rick’s wave-magnet mojo rubs off on me, and we both just start trading off on waves, running a paddling carousel around the other guys in the lineup. Despite the weird conditions, wedgey peaks are standing up. My best wave’s a racy left. I pump, check turn, and stick a layback carve at the end. Rick’s making even the closeouts look good, banking hits off the top before they shut down.

     The lineup gets more crowded. The only gap is where all the seaweed is. I’m the only one trunking it. I’m not cold, but since I don’t have a wetsuit on, the seaweed wraps itself around my whole body. It’s itchy, like I’m duckdiving through trash. I paddle south away from the seaweed and the crowd. The wind picks up. I’m not getting the same solid rides as before, but I’m at least getting some layback carve practice on the end sections. Who knew? I never thought I’d see progress in this maneuver, but I’m actually beginning to stick some of these. Little by little. If I can do these, I hope they’ll translate into layback snaps in the future.

YOU DON’T NEED A WETSUIT, SUN 28JUN2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0645-0915

Crew: Bri, Klaude

Conditions: 3-4 FT, glassy, sunny, crowded

     I don’t know how many days in a row Bri and I have surfed, but I know we have some sort of streak going on. Nowadays, we’re in bed by 1100, up by 0600, and in the water no later than 0700.

     We’re not expecting much surf, but Klaude said it was “all right” yesterday, so why not go out for a check. When we pull up, we’re surprised to see some peaks mixed in with some broken up lines. Also, there’s some size.

     On the way down the hill, someone yells out to us, “Why you in a wetsuit? The water’s been warm.”

     It’s Roy. I smile, wave, and continue down to the sand. It’s his way of saying good morning, but at the same time, I tell myself that I better be in boardshorts next time I’m here.

     More people are coming out. Bri and I paddle out north of the tower, but the lefts at the next break over are too good to pass up. “I’m paddling over,” I say to Bri.

     I sit with Mitch. Orlando and Jose make it out. Ten minutes later, nearly the whole 26^th Street Ohana’s in the lineup, minus Ross and Don K., and . . . Klaude.

     A perfect right comes my way, but the two other locals were their first, so I back out. None of them get it. Fuck. Should’ve gone. And . . . the rest of the session is just hard to secure a legit wave to myself.

     In the distance, Bri has a gap in the lineup, milking inside rights. Bruce and Costco Kim are sharing with her. Roy paddles over the shoulder, hooting her on a wave.

     I get my share of waves, but nothing too significant, and it’s not even a fault to the conditions, it’s just the crowd I struggle with.

     The wind turns onshore, the water choppy. The surf’s picking up in size, but quality’s going down.

     Klaude shows up. Bri and I stay out another half hour to get some facetime with him. We end up at Mandy’s in El Segundo for breakfast. “After this, we probably shouldn’t go out to eat for a while,” I say. “We have Indo coming up.”

CHURCHES CAMPOUT WEEKEND PT.VI, SAT 27JUN2015

Loc: Churches

Time: 0545-0715

Crew: Bri, Gary, Dave, Rick

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, glassy, overcast, incoming swell

     My alarm goes off at 0500, but I shut it off. I’m awoken from Rick and Juan’s conversation in the next tent over. “You should wake up Matt,” says Rick.

     “Me?” says Juan. “Why don’t you wake him up?”

     I stumble out of the tent. I’m late. Should have gotten up when my alarm went off. It’s overcast and gray out. I brush my teeth with fury, change into my damp wetsuit, and grab my board. Even though Rick was suited up before me, I beat him to the sand. No time to waste. Bri needs to be at work by 0900. It’s gonna be a quick session.

     I should warm up. I always do, but I start my cobblestone dance half asleep. My gawd it’s hard to do this right now. Paddling out, I miss a right that I’m too deep for. I turn and go on the second wave of the set on my backhand. I pump, the wave is outracing me, and I lose the section in the flats. I’m barely shaking off the sleep by the time Rick paddles out.

     The surf is supposed to pick up later today. There are small waves right now, but the incoming tide’s gonna kill it.

     The session’s hard. Gary paddles out, too, and so does Dave. We’re waiting for the sets. When they come in, they’re a little soft.

     Forty-five minutes into the session, and I have half the mind to go in early, but all of a sudden Mons Pubis, North Churches, starts working. Rights start coming in. Just like the last two days at Churches, some random outsiders start popping up.

     The surf goes from mooshburgers to rippable lefts. More people paddle out. The rights aren’t as good, but I catch a rogue left, getting down the line, pulling off a wraparound cutback, and ending with a floater. I cover a lot of ground.

     Rick paddles further south, loyal to the rights breaking over there. Gary and Dave paddle over just inside of Mons Pubis, battling it out with the longboarders and some groms. At 0715, I have to leave early to help Bri pack. By session’s end, we all get at least two solid rides.

     At the campsite, Bri’s already done all the packing herself. The whole crew comes back from the surf, Juan with camera gear in hand. Rick’s stoked, says he ended it with a set right.

     “There’s some good ones out there!” says Juan. I know. I know there are good ones and that there’s gonna be more throughout the rest of the day. The swell’s shown up early. Tomorrow should be even better.

     Rick wants us to stay, me at least. I could send Bri home packing. She could make the drive solo, unload all of our gear, and get to work on time, but I can’t do that. That’s gonna be a hell of a drive for her, and unpacking alone is never fun. Truth is, I’m quite beached. Been here since Thursday, slept in a tiny tent the last two nights, awoken by the damn Amtrak in the wee hours of the night. I have a day on these guys, scored good surf on the first day, and I have my share of sunburn to prove it.

     We hang for another fifteen minutes before saying goodbye. On the way home go through the McDonald’s drive thru, and we’re home forty-five minutes later.

     “Just get ready,” I tell Bri, as I open the door for her. “I’ll unpack.”

     Our studio apartment’s so tiny. The average couple couldn’t share this space. The air is stale and reeks from our trashcan. I open the windows to air it out.

     Bri puts down her bag, sighs, and says, “I love our home.”