2017 – #16 TUE21FEB

            I messed up by requesting too much overtime last week at work, not thinking that they’d approve it. I didn’t take into account that when it rains, a lot of people call in sick. For a week straight I had to see my friends post record breaking stats on their Traces, knowing that local surf was fun and rippable while I was stuck at work. After pulling a 10 hour shift on Monday, I was determined to paddle out on Tuesday.

            Passing Dockweiler, I could see that there were waves. The Chevron Tanks looked a little walled. I pulled into 45^th Street in the midst of a light rain. There were waves, indeed, but they weren’t peaky. They were coming in a little walled, or the shoulders were just saddles that led into another oncoming wave. Either way, it looked worthy enough, surf starved as I was.

            I pushed it a little more south just to see what 26^th Street looked like. The surf was a tad smaller and, quality wise, not much better. However, there was free parking, so that was just too hard to pass up.

            Paddling out at 1030, only a small thimble full of the usual locals were there. Two whose names I don’t know and the legend Don Kadowaki. The storm drain had some runoff creeping towards the ocean, but hadn’t quite reached it yet. I thought about all the sharps that could be embedded in the sand and the nasty bacteria floating around in the water, but there was no passing on this session.

            The water was cold as I had expected, but a few duckdives later and I was used to it. I paddled a smudge north to escape the few heads that were there, and within a minute a big rolling right came my way. My board felt leafy, just too small for all the water moving around, but as I turned to scratch and kick, it was like my board stopped and slowly gained momentum just in time for the wave to pick me up. The drop itself was fun, although sketchy, and the feeling of maintaining my balance down the face felt victory enough.

            I just didn’t want to blow it. Not surfing in nine days does make a difference. My board felt awkward, the quads a little to fast and loose. I managed my first backhand snap and carefully transitioned into a cutback with still some open face left for another hit. After the second snap, I hit the eject button before the wave closed out and cannon balled into the safety zone just behind it.

            It wasn’t a session when I scored wave after wave. In fact, that was my best wave of an otherwise uneventful session, but paddling back to the lineup and getting the smiling nod of approval from Don and a few of the other gents there made being out there worthy enough.

2017 – #15 SUN12FEB

            So now two more people I know have a Surf Trace. Good thing about that is I can check their stats to get an idea of how the surf is. Manny and Rick both scored turns at 45^th. Actually, Brett Simpson was surfing out there, according to them, so if it’s good enough for a pro…

            Klaude called me right when I got home from work, said he had slept in late, so he was gonna hit it. On the way to the surf, he called again and said there were waves everywhere, except 26^th St.; something about those sandbars over there that’s not working.

            Bri and I parked in the Porto lot and walked to Rosecrans. Sadly, there was so much trash in the lineup: candy wrappers, straws, plastic, and plastic bags. Not big pieces, but there were a lot of tiny plastic things just floating everywhere, and every time a wave stood up, you could just see the trash lifting up with it, weaved into an aquatic curtain.

            Despite the high tide, the paddle out was a little far, and waves were breaking way on the outside. Typical of the tide, a lot of the rides started off fast and bogged out on the inside. We all scored a few waves, but really, the trash was just so nasty. Every duckdive all I could think about was how my sinuses were getting contaminated. My eyes burned a little more than usual.

            After the sesh, I didn’t really have any solid turns to claim. If anything, the surf was a game of just making sections and trying to stay in the pocket, a lot of stop and go without a good face to unleash a solid carve on.

            But the day was beautiful. Bri and I walked down to 26^th on The Strand to enjoy the atmosphere. Manhattan Beach was just as crowded and active as an amusement park without the lines, the ocean as the main attraction. It was like a spring day, and yet, we’re expecting another storm come Friday.

2017 – 13 & 14 The Return of Fran-Sauce

            On Sunday morning, I was supposed to meet with Klaude and Khang at 26^th St., Manhattan Beach. Only issue is, with that day being Super Bowl Sunday, a gang of people called in sick, so I had to stay over to walk an extra flight out. When I finally arrived to the beach, the boys were nowhere to be found. I paddled over to a small pack at 30^th Street and recognized sitting towards the inside. Instead of calling out his name, like I should have, I was trying to be Ninja Matt and planned on getting as close as I could to surprise him, but a wave came, and with that wave went Dais. All I could do was look forlornly towards the shore, knowing that my buddies were somewhere on the sand, heading back to their cars, and not even realizing that I had actually made it out.

            It was a major bummer, but at least there were waves. For the first time in days, the surf was actually manageable. I mean, there were some rideable peaks, racy, but still shouldery enough for a quick turn or two.

            I spotted Toru and Cliff, two 26^th St. regulars. Cliff said I had missed it when it was good earlier, but when I paddled up to Toru he said I didn’t miss much at all. The tide was actually on the downswing, so if any window was rideable it was at that moment.

            The paddle out was surprisingly far, and the waves were breaking more towards the outside. I managed some long racy rides that brought me to the inside, but it was so hard to set up for finishing turns because the waves mooshed out around there.

            I surfed for an hour, and the wind started to change a little. The second shift was over, and most of the locals were gone for the day, already heading home to begin the pre-party festivities.

            Walking on the sand, I saw Francis waving me down from The Strand. Francis…he’s easily in my “top 5” as far as good men go. He was in town to take his paramedic test for his job on Oahu. I hadn’t seen him since last summer. With his classmate in tow, we headed to Seafood Town for their lunch special, and in the evening we went to Klaude’s friend’s Super Bowl get together in Culver City, where I finally met up with the boys and told them how I had narrowly missed them that morning.

            We all planned to surf the next day, despite the strong chance of rain. That Monday morning at work, it rained really hard on the LAX runway. It was the most coldest and miserable session I’ve ever had at work. With it still raining by the time I got home, I thought surf was out of the questions. I checked my phone. Klaude went to work. Khang was a negative. Dais suggested going around 10am.

            Francis told me we should just check it out anyway, and I agreed. “Sometimes all you need is that friend,” he said, “that makes you paddle out in anything.” I guess it had been a long time since I had a morning like that, but we packed up and headed to 45^th Street, and right when we entered the lot we saw seven guys out. The wind was howling offshore, the inside was churning and consistent with kelp, but the waves breaking on the outside were actually clean. Suddenly, what had initially been a bummer of a stormy morning turned into a stoke filled changing fest in the parking lot.

            “Fuck yeah. It’s on,” I said. We giggled like little girls, or maybe it was just me. He sampled my wife’s chunky horse pill of a board, me on my puddle jumper. We paddled out into the winter water. I wondered if we’d get sick, and I hoped it’d be worth it if we did, but there we were, two surf homies paddling out together just like old times.

            To make the rest of the story short, Francis was charging on a board that I’ve only seen in small cobblestone surf. He took a lot of bomb rights, maybe only chest to shoulder high, and threw huge fans of spray out the back. I was stoked for him, for us.

            After an hour and forty-five minutes it was time to call it. His flight home was at five, and the ominous conditions from the storm still made the atmosphere a little sketch. We ended the surf officially with a late breakfast at Main Street Café in El Segundo.

            Here’s to the homie. Hope we get to surf again soon.