SURF REPORT #7

SURF REPORT



SURF REPORT #7 ( 6 AUGUST 2009)



Burning hot since midday and been dry for eight days. A little wobbly from one too many McKiernan’s yesterday with Glazetron. If there is wet then I am for it. Cool water remedy. JPhan is working in Camarillo, no swell of note, good timing, but GPrince is ready and at four we begin our sojourn. We toy with the gore-point at the junction of 101 and the 33, deciding at last to go to Nucklehead because the wind is up, of course. Surfkites are out at lower Emma. The channel is whitecapping moderately under 15 knot breezes. Things don’t seem impossible. Drained at low tide, the Nuckle is chopped but rideable. We sit on the dirt shoulder watching the tiny turmoil, talking about the Pisser’s new greenhouse plans. The farther north we go, the better the conditions and the smaller the ‘swell’. We agree that planting basil and tomatoes will be adventurously experimental and sound fiduciary practice. We run to Javon, then all the way to Shores, sit on the sand in some wooden chairs there, reminiscing, then make a move to the Mitt, which is scudding on a low tide. Back to Nuckle. We text Phaneuf as usual along the way to keep him and his broad subscriber base fully informed on our surf-pathos. A select few may be able to glean vital data from our nuanced reports.



By now the tide has come up and there are windswell sets falling on the sandbars from Nuckles to Trader Joes. A few sloppy lefts evidence the 205-215 out there somewhere, gravely refracted as it slips through the channels. We have committed to a Three Wave Minimum. The sea is sloppy but not without form. When we get out, it’s suddenly shoulder high, but a five to six second period between waves means flat troughs and hard-to-catch mush, then a sudden dump. But there are no waves for miles to either side of us.



I’m a bit leery of committing to surf the dumpy mayhem on the heels of my last injury on the dreaded Nuckles bar, but I choose safely. Pisser nabs some decent waves. After a medium washer, I try to paddle back out only to be trashed by an eight wave onslaught that drives me nearly down to Emma. Where did this windswell come from? The current is rolling south. I paddle through and trek north, chasing GPrinze. Wanting to wring joy from a waist-high feebler, I ride to shore then splash for too long through another parade of dumpers marking out the zone. But we are giddy with the silliness and fortune. Nobody is surfing in Oxnard. Its good to be tired, to have dunked, to have been caught inside!. Justin pulls up while we are pulling off our wetsuits.