WAGON WEEK PT.2: The Storm, TUE 15SEPT2015

Loc: North Churches

Time: 1540-1640      

Crew: Jimmy & Garr

Conditions: 2-3 FT, windswell, choppy, unorganized

Board: Motorboat Too

     The weather had rain in the forecast, and we were hoping that it wouldn’t hit too badly. Before going to bed that Monday night I looked at the sky and said, “It doesn’t look too bad. I can still see the stars.”

     “Usually gets worse overnight,” said Rick.

     Sure as shit, at about 0300 I was awoken by pelting rain on my wagon window. I had to piss, but I was like, fuck that.

     In the morning, we still woke up and did our usual cup of coffee, but we were huddled around the picnic table underneath the E-Z Up. There was a lull in the action, and the rain was just coming down in light misty sheets. Rick and the fellas had planned to check Del Mar Jetty, but minute by minute as our shins got wetter and wetter, an official lay day was called.

     Before they left, the rain started to come down harder, beating down on top of Rick’s tent and the EZ-Up like a million little fingers wanting in. They left. I drove my car up to Churches and just parked right there to catch up on a blog post.

     A few cars pulled up to check the surf and left, but one car remained. I turned on my car just to activate the windshield wipers so I could get a pic, and that’s when I saw him. One lone soul surfer was paddling out in the miserable conditions on a longboard. Wherever there are waves, no matter the kind, you will always find one.

#

     I spent the entire morning and early afternoon sitting on my ass in the Camp Pendleton Library. While on my computer, I was distracted every time a strong gust of rain blew through, but by the afternoon it was sunny and warm again.

     Getting back to camp, all I wanted was to get in the water. Caffeine struck and stagnant, I just couldn’t wait to get in.

     I passed a few guys on the inside. Another surfer at the top of Churches, with a ponytail, thought I was trying to back paddle him, but I just kept going and going until reaching the north end of the break.

     Soon Jimmy and Gary joined. The peaks reminded me of scattered and unorganized windswell, like when there’s so much activity that a rideable peak could just sprout up at any moment.

     My Motorboat Too didn’t feel good on those waves. Some of the peaks stood up fast and just shouldered out. Gary and Jimmy had good voluptuous hardware that had them getting waves all the way to the inside.

     For dinner that night we headed to Gary’s parents’ house and ate some home cooked enchiladas. “You guys are more than welcome to stay out here,” said Gary’s dad. “It’s gonna rain again tonight.” He started listing off the places that each of us could sleep. It was a big house. The air was still misty with a heavy overcast; we were definitely being set up for another night of misery. Rick and Gary’s tent had gotten flooded, so I knew the offer must’ve seemed exceptionally worthy at that moment.

     As I ate, I couldn’t help but feel like I was eating the best meal of my life. The idea of going back to camp and the thought of the cold wet air outside made me shiver. Inside, we had hot food in our tummies. The T.V. was on. We were watching some bullshit, it didn’t matter. All we knew was that it felt so good to be dry.

     “I think we’re heading out of here, Pablo,” said Rick. Of course. We can’t ditch camp. It’s all part of the experience. We powerwalked back to Rick’s van and shut its doors as fast as we could.

WAGON WEEK PT.1 (double), MON 14 SEPT2015

Loc: San Onofre / Churches

Time: 0710-0910      

Conditions: 2-3 FT, south wind, texture, racy, warm

Board: Motorboat Too

     Rick has a campsite for a week during the Lower Trestles event, so how can I say no? My plan is to get my surf on, hang with the fellas, but still do some freelance work at the library to maintain productivity.

     I kiss Bri on the cheek and leave the house at 0530. I create some new Pandora stations for the drive: Elton John and Billy Joel. My mom, who passed away August of last year, has been on my mind a lot lately. I’ll hear a song that reminds me of her. The other day when I was cooking dinner, just the way the light was shining in the kitchen, the hot summer air, and the sound of plates and silverware clanging, those elements combined brought me back to my childhood. I remembered my how my mom would cook dinner for us in our dim kitchen while the sun was going down, her radio on the corner table playing K-Earth 101, me being too young to fully appreciate the sacrifices she was making for us, and how an act so common as cooking for your family is rooted deeply with love. It’s sad how you realize things when it’s too late. . .

     “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” played as I hit San Clemente. I could already see the textured lines rolling in at Middles as I made the left. Showing up to Churches, Gary, Juan, Dave, and Rick were already up and about, but the surf . . . ha! My luck, right? When I was here during Labor Day the swell was too big to hold shape, and now the south wind is on it, creating sectiony chopped-out lines. Son of a bitch.

     I say hi to the homies and change into my wetsuit.

     “Too hot for that,” says Rick.

     “You’re gonna roast,” says Juan.

     Rick dumps a Hurley springsuit in the back of my wagon. “Put this on,” he says.

     Despite the cool air temp, the water is just as hot as it was a week ago. I paddle towards North Churches and sit with a few longboarders, giving out some morning greetings to disarm any preconceived hostilities, a tactic that encourages wave sharing; sometimes it works.

     Unfortunately, shape is an issue. I’m picky but still end up on some racy closeouts. I get a few rights and get some frustro carves, forced to kickout early. My foot touches the bottom for a second on one wave, and, sure as shit, I check my heel out in the lineup, and I’ve got a flap of skin over a deep crater in my heel. I’m hoping it’s not as bad as it feels.

     Towards the end of the sesh, I get a decent left but blow the power carve and eat it. I get a few rights that offer some snaps, but there’s nothing spectacular. At least it’s not crowded.

     On the sand, I take a look at my heel, and the sand around it is already caked in blood. I show Juan and Dave, and they clean up my wound and bandage me up.

#

Time: 1530-1820      

Crew: Jimmy, Rick, Gary

Conditions: 2-3 FT, light onshore, soft, warm

Board: Motorboat Too

     After spending some time at the San Clemente Library, I headed back to camp, stopping to grab some ice for the fellas on the way back. When I showed up Jimmy B. had just arrived, but Juan and Dave were long gone.

     The ocean looked a lot cleaner with classic light onshore conditions, producing decent shape. Issue was with the size. On low tide, the energy in the water was a bit sapped, but we paddled out at the bottom of Churches to milk some of the rights.

     Like a tractor beam, the main peak pulled us towards it, and we ended up sitting with the light afternoon crowd. I managed to get a couple of decent rights, like those shouldery waves that break at the top of Churches. For the first time in a while, I had a couple classic right handers to myself, small but good enough for some snaps.

     Rick snaked Gary on one of the rights. I thought Rick would kick out for his buddy, but he waited until he got three turns before doing so, only leaving Gary with a double hitter. They signed each other back and forth, the interference diamond, and then Gary punched his palm and pointed to Rick.

     I eventually ended up at North Churches with Jimmy where he was milking the lefts. When he left, it was just me and Rick and a handful of groms. As the tide push began, they stood up more, but I still struggled on my board. I forgot how it doesn’t do so well when it’s this small on such a slopey wave versus small beach break where there’s at least some punch.

     Rick did well on his repaired Neckbeard. The volume of that board propelled him through the flat sections and had him throwing out some buckets. Wave of the day went to him on a rogue four footer.

     For dinner, Jimmy had two pressure cookers going with pork loin and organic pinto beans, made from scratch. He also had wild rice in a family-sized rice cooker. It was the cleanest meal I had ever eaten while camping.

     Rick and Gar were done early, but Jimmy stayed up with me by the fire and was asking some serious life questions about what I planned on doing next. I was on the spot and uncomfortable, but . . . I kind of needed that.

     I’m definitely stepping into the next phase of my life. Surf-bum time is over. I can still be a surf bum, but I must do so selectively. There’s a time to surf and a time to work, and when the waves aren’t hitting I need to be doing something freelance or at least have a gig lined up where I have money coming in. The major crossroad that I face is: do I turn into a full time nine-to-fiver or find freelance work with flexibility but less security? I’m going to be married, and I want to provide, but I still want to live an autonomous lifestyle.

FALL, SAT 12SEPT2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0630-0820

Crew: Bri, KK, Tom   

Conditions: 2-3 FT, light texture, mid-to-high tide, overcast

Board: 5’10 Lost Mini Driver, quads with nubster

     I wasn’t expecting much to begin with, but after taking a lay day I really wanted to paddle out and catch whatever the surf was offering. We scored free parking and got to the water by 0615. I flipped my board upside down and saw that I had punctured the bottom of my board, a deep one the circumference of a quarter.

     “You can’t surf it like that,” said Bri. She paddled out ahead of me.

     Fuck. It’s not like I had another board. I rushed back to the car and kneaded some FCS putty, and then local vet Burt walked over and sealed it with some packing tape. I thanked him repeatedly. I’m telling you, that’s why I love surfing here. The locals are cool, so long as you know how to share. It made me think about other surf spots, the most crowded ones. Are the lineups that bad or does being a regular make the difference? It should, right? Like, I can’t just paddle out at Malibu and expect to get waves. I don’t surf there, but I bet that there’s a pack of regulars who acknowledge each other and offer some kind of courtesy. You invest in surf a spot, get your card stamp every time, and after a while with enough validation you get your “free” wave.

     Back on the sand, the lineup was already starting to get packed in front of the tower. It was now 0630. Scattered clouds were stretched out over the horizon, giving the sky a bright pink depth, lightly overcast but still warm. Are these El Nino conditions? I had a moment of gratefulness. Just to see that picturesque sky, you can’t buy that. You gotta be up early. You gotta be here.

     The tide seemed low, but with a 5-foot high tide in a couple hours, I knew that the window would be small. Clean, fast, and racy little peaks were coming in. Unfortunately they didn’t offer much. I pulled in or pumped for a short distance, but even though the surf was small it was nice seeing all the locals out.

     Bri and I paddled through the lineup, caught up with everyone, and gave greetings all around. Bri caught more waves than I did and milked the smaller ones that were more shouldery. Tom came out and did the same.

     Klaude paddled out at about 0800, barebacking it. The south wind was minute but had enough push to create some texture on the water.

     We left at 0820. It was a “whatever” morning that was worth the company more than the waves.

     As usual, cars buzzed around the metered parking looking for spots. A woman asked if we were leaving and then waited for us to change. The overcast still painted the sky pink, a nice break from the relentless sun we’ve had all week, and then we caught a light drizzle on the way home. It was odd but beautiful. It felt like Halloween and pre Thanksgiving. It felt like fall.