SURF REPORT
CROUCHING LION
8 September 2009
You can best see the lion when you are four or five hundred yards offshore. Crouching Lion is a rocky hilltop above my sister’s house at Makaua, in Kaaawa, Oahu. If you line yourself dead-on with the lion so her little white house is right below it, you can stay on the best and most consistent peaks when the swell is running out of the northwest. There are five peaks on the lion, though the most northerly, which breaks weakly into Kahana Bay unless there is a big push, is not ridden much. I once paddled out at Crouching Lion with good Konas blowing and a lot of boys out, and ended up seeking the soul rights on Kahana: mo bettah. But a little sharky.
When I arrived in Honolulu my brother in law called from Kaaawa. He told me that Cameron said there was surf and that Cameron had even waxed up The Diff. This is undue deferential treatment, so upon arriving I made to paddle out to the reef even if just to look around for turtles. Cameron is the nephew-in-law. He thinks of me as a semi-icon I suppose, the game geezer. We ate fried spam sushi like holy communion, washed it down with vodka and guava juice on ice and hit the water.
“ I plan on surfing if we go all the way out there,” suggested the young Cameron, husband of Niece Number One.
“ Oh of course we will ride a few.” I didn’t want to kibosh the notion, surf unseen. And so we stroked out on our trek to the reef.
There were trades blowing and the reef was Maytagging around, so from the shore a hundred riders had slipped by on Kamehameha Highway thinking that the lion was not working. But there were no whitecaps on the sea, so the trades were meek. On we stroked, until we were on the reef dodging white water. I remembered that it is wise that whenever you find yourself on one of those tropical reefs with a lowered tide to paddle shallowly, with your little fingers barely wet, because the last thing you want to do is jam the ball of your hand into an urchin on the way out. No matter how good the waves are, your surfing pleasure will be diluted by the throbbing pain the poisonous spines induce.
With the trade windswells and Lord knows whatever else swinging in out of the deep blue, the reef crossing was arduous. Not the worst, but still a continual buffeting. The reef is broad, and no sooner did one wave break there was another behind it. Thus the entry was tiresome and eventually fraught with a few epithets. I thought that Cameron was right behind me, but discovered he had not passed the reef and was drawn down towards Kahana, where I saw him waving after I had ridden. After a few waves I realized he had still not crossed over and I could not see him so I took some whitewater back over to find him. I was drifting around wondering how big the shark was that had torn him in half when I turned to see him now on the far south end of the reef, surfing. He had paddled all the way down to the channel and gone out from the top, which is what I now entertained. I was so glad I did not have to explain to my sister how I had not kept better care of her son-in-law.
Once in the blue and surveying what’s really going down out there, the waves are really pretty good if you are in the right place when the groundswell comes in. The trade swell is playful but dissolves into mush. The groundswell is head high and is breaking on three distinct peaks. You want to get in and get down on those. The current takes us frequently into the netherzone, so we have to remind ourselves to keep moving up. The lefts were the best, or so I thought until I decided to go right and midway down the line observed myself making a long roundhouse cutback to flip back in, just like riding a bicycle.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
SURF REPORT Wipeout
SURF REPORT
7 September 2009
At 34,000 feet in the air the sea is as far away as Maude Smallin’s 6th grade blackboard. The clouds way-way down below are so close to the sea and far from us that they are like butt-smudges on the gray-green slate of the Pacific Ocean. We are going to Hawaii! Hawaii! “I wish you would come along with me.” Because its always nice to share the trip with a fellow traveler. It’s lovely and lonely. I lived here for four years. Long enough to be able to go to Eva Beach during a south swell when all the locals are warning me about the locals, and I say:
“ Nah, I am too old to mess with.”
When I show up there they just wave their shakabra fingers at me and grin from behind their sunglasses, then they just go back to their reveries in the cars they’ve had parked in the sand down there for decades. Maybe folks even inherit those beach heaps. Like nobody is going to show up at Eva unless they belong there, Brah, or they are crazy.
Old surf song lyrics remind me of Maudie’s son, Dale. Dale managed The Surfaris in the 1960’s and its Dale who cackles out that wicked Edgar Alan Poe inspired EUEUEHWWWIIIIPE-OWT! …at the beginning of the Surfari’s big hit of the same name off the album of the same name.
Maudie brought Dale to school so he could pull off his wild EUEUEHWWWIIIIPE-OWT… in person for us at a school assembly. Can you imagine how cornellacious it would be if we asked him to do it twice today? He did it twice then. Three times would have been too much. Dale looked a little too Pillsbury to have been surfing much back then. But he had that wild howl down and gave us a thrill. He didn’t seem to think it was lame to be doing it like that, a capella in some sterile auditorium. God bless his heart.
Then they cued the record for a little more entertainment, and we all sat there in our khaki uniforms and black ties, thirteen-year-old sergeants and little 4th grade corporals, listening to the Surfaris on some RCA Victor portable record player. The song was a vacant and inappropriate sound when heard out of place, when we were all crammed together in the formal circumstance. But out back of the barracks late in the afternoon that song would come on like an anthem when everybody’d be putting the gloss to the belt buckle with a little Brasso, and shining their clunky black shoes or big bad boots ( I never felt like ponying up for, nor swaggering in such, myself) back when we were somewhat under house arrest.
Then KRLA would play something else cool like Dick Dale’a Misirlu (Ah, ya habibi, Ah, ya leh-leli, ah!) or the great instrumental Apache by Jorgen Ingmann. It’s a shame that people won’t settle for s nice straightforward instrumental anymore these days, especially since the good lyricists can be counted on two hands. Back in 1963 you had to have a good strong instrumental in the repertoire. Words can be a bit overvalued. Even the Rolling Stones covered 2120 South Michigan Avenue. We were 27 miles from Corona Del Mar listening to all this but were feeling the vibe, all the same. Wipe Out was recorded where I grew up, in the lemon groves and grape vineyards of Cucamonga, at a place run by Frank Zappa.
7 September 2009
At 34,000 feet in the air the sea is as far away as Maude Smallin’s 6th grade blackboard. The clouds way-way down below are so close to the sea and far from us that they are like butt-smudges on the gray-green slate of the Pacific Ocean. We are going to Hawaii! Hawaii! “I wish you would come along with me.” Because its always nice to share the trip with a fellow traveler. It’s lovely and lonely. I lived here for four years. Long enough to be able to go to Eva Beach during a south swell when all the locals are warning me about the locals, and I say:
“ Nah, I am too old to mess with.”
When I show up there they just wave their shakabra fingers at me and grin from behind their sunglasses, then they just go back to their reveries in the cars they’ve had parked in the sand down there for decades. Maybe folks even inherit those beach heaps. Like nobody is going to show up at Eva unless they belong there, Brah, or they are crazy.
Old surf song lyrics remind me of Maudie’s son, Dale. Dale managed The Surfaris in the 1960’s and its Dale who cackles out that wicked Edgar Alan Poe inspired EUEUEHWWWIIIIPE-OWT! …at the beginning of the Surfari’s big hit of the same name off the album of the same name.
Maudie brought Dale to school so he could pull off his wild EUEUEHWWWIIIIPE-OWT… in person for us at a school assembly. Can you imagine how cornellacious it would be if we asked him to do it twice today? He did it twice then. Three times would have been too much. Dale looked a little too Pillsbury to have been surfing much back then. But he had that wild howl down and gave us a thrill. He didn’t seem to think it was lame to be doing it like that, a capella in some sterile auditorium. God bless his heart.
Then they cued the record for a little more entertainment, and we all sat there in our khaki uniforms and black ties, thirteen-year-old sergeants and little 4th grade corporals, listening to the Surfaris on some RCA Victor portable record player. The song was a vacant and inappropriate sound when heard out of place, when we were all crammed together in the formal circumstance. But out back of the barracks late in the afternoon that song would come on like an anthem when everybody’d be putting the gloss to the belt buckle with a little Brasso, and shining their clunky black shoes or big bad boots ( I never felt like ponying up for, nor swaggering in such, myself) back when we were somewhat under house arrest.
Then KRLA would play something else cool like Dick Dale’a Misirlu (Ah, ya habibi, Ah, ya leh-leli, ah!) or the great instrumental Apache by Jorgen Ingmann. It’s a shame that people won’t settle for s nice straightforward instrumental anymore these days, especially since the good lyricists can be counted on two hands. Back in 1963 you had to have a good strong instrumental in the repertoire. Words can be a bit overvalued. Even the Rolling Stones covered 2120 South Michigan Avenue. We were 27 miles from Corona Del Mar listening to all this but were feeling the vibe, all the same. Wipe Out was recorded where I grew up, in the lemon groves and grape vineyards of Cucamonga, at a place run by Frank Zappa.
SURF REPORT 3107
25 August 2009
South swell moving up all day. Towards four piled into Otter’s van with DocterDave and Pisser. Greg’s pissed-really heartbroken, because yesterday he drove away from C Street without tying down his beloved Robert August soft top and when he pulled onto the 33 he realized that somewhere between the lot and freeway it had sailed off. He never found it.
Rode flat on my back next to the boards watching backwards as the hot Eucalyptus branches waved in the wind with my head next to Dave’s knee while Pisser and Dave made homojokes on my behalf. I was glazed and tired. Phaneuf installed windows somewhere in the harbor all day and would meet us at the point, which held a low tide and head high to overhead sets when we arrived. CDIP was 4.1 at 14 from the 195.
Wolfpacked a peak at Stables. Everyone gave the Silverbacks elbow room with all our bigboard yooha bravado. We were catching all the waves in that zone so the crowd cleared nicely. Consistent surf rolling through. I nearly sent Pisser to the dentist with an errant footslip on a takeoff. He said he had thoughtlessly paused to admire the view when the Rusty suddenly came hurtling beakwards. The lefts were happening. Otter got a lot of long rights. Dave struggled doggedly.
As we made an exit I began to pick my way over the rocks toward shore and noted a woman combing her hair, appraising me as I tiptoed through the sand and boulders. Every time I took my eyes off the rocks she was still looking. I waited for Otter a minute then started back up the slippery stones. She cast further admiring looks while braiding her hair as she sat on the hood of her beefy black SUV and I rock stepped up to the embankment. As I stood up on the shelf I observed that it was the same woman who had snaked me two days previously.
“ What now?” I said to myself. “ She likes me?”
It was impossible to not give her a little wave when she kept beaming at me, though I felt like meat. “ What the hell?”
I caught Pisser by the elbow and told him about the woman. He gives a gander.
“ Hey, she’s cute,” he says.
Yellow police tape was strewn across the frontage road. Pisser said a guy had told him a woman had been struck in the road and killed. Her dog still lay dead on the pavement with the orange evening sun warming its lifeless fur. The woman was one of the homeless folks that wander up from the river bottom and hang around the bathroom. A wind-blown, scraggly couple sat clutching one another on the opposite sidewalk. They seemed too young to be bums, but I know age is no bar to poverty. There must have been nine cops leaning on their doors or milling about, staring at the spot where the dead woman had once lay.
26 August
Picked the CSA load early. Francisco and I had picked beans and squash the previous day, so gathering the vegetables was fairly easy. Had a good crew picking. Picked some nice melons and ate a bunch in the field. Ditched the FORAGER newsletter and rode down with Phaneuf to Knuckles. CDIP is going 3.0 from the 170 at 14 seconds from the south. Knuckies can probably be better but every element coalesced into satisfaction just short of perfection. Windless conditions on a rising tide near high with head high sets. Nailed a legitimate barrel going left- which was generally the only shoulder you could count on making. Phaneuf rode his little yellow flash. Crowd was minimal, with school back in session and summer on the wane.
Surfed again at Mondos in the afternoon on a lowering tide. Grace Buetti had been texting me about Mondos earlier, during the low tide. Said it was BIG! Grace was there with Belle, on Belle’s last day before going back to Colorado. Such earnestly dear young girls they are. Grace said she had misgivings about going out earlier. I said there was no need to prove anything.
Pisser showed up with Emilie. I wanted to run up to John and Mary’s to see if the waves I rode there in 1985 with Lee Gearhart were still breaking. Maybe Gearheart will still be up there on his little white diamond tail, scooting through on those hissing green walls from New Zealand. John and Greg decided to surf the Mondo’s shorebreak. Mondos reef looks like a scene from the Ventura County Fair: everyone’s here but the kids from Santa Paula with their show hogs.
There were waist high walls visible up toward Pitas. It was a long walk-not really that long but the longest walk to get to a surfspot this side of Sands Beach. The trek is so long people don’t want to make it. It takes ten to fifteen minutes. I would walk a lot farther to ride an empty sand-bottom point breaking shoulder high with not another soul within fifty yards of me. I passed two guys on longboards sitting on a clean little peak a hundred yards up from Mondos. They were barebacking it. When I got up to the Tudor House I paddled out. I was by myself . Gearheart had already gone in-twenty four years ago. He says he’s never surfed since he moved to New Mexico. He said the ocean was too crowded, too polluted. He was a good surfer. But there is no one out at John and Mary’s but me and there is ten to fifteen foot visibility in a lively sea with fish jumping and pelicans diving on them. The waves came at me and peaks broke here and then there, and closed out where earlier it had machined down the line. I took off into a weird looping bowl, made the drop, turned into a barrel and got hit in the head by the lip of the wave. As I tumbled backwards I began to remember that mussely rocks punctuate the Pitas bottom. I had seen none of them, so knew where none of them were. Perhaps I just missed getting a big mussel gash through the base of my skull. Rule Number Five: always land flat and protect your head from the rocks you can’t see.
I got five waves that all closed too quickly before me. If it had been beachbreak I would have been stoked to just get buried or make the takeoff, but it was the sand bottom of Pitas that can be on many days be so wonderfully walled and hollow, so the frustration was magnified by possibilities unattained merely because the swell was hitting straight from the south. The sun was going down. Instead of cruising down to Mondos I walked it. Pisser was going on about how he broke his board with his dick. There was no gyst to it until I saw he had delaminated the nose of the board he had borrowed from Otter. Greg had hit the rail with his pelvis just as both made contact with the sand on a Mondos sand whomper. He sat spread-legged in the sand, a pained but game look on his Jack of Spades face.
“ Not a good week for boards, man.”
“ No, but what hurts worse?”
“ Losing the Robert August, probably. Yeah, sure.”
27 August
Surfed. 105 degrees by one PM in the valley. Watered the nursery and motored to the coast, with John and Seed. Mondos was mushed but wet. I went out to the far reef and anchored in the eelgrass. A girl was surfing up there so I gave her all the room and waves she desired. There were few of them anyway. A ruddy guy in a handlebar mustache, maybe my age, which is 59, moves up on a long board and, observing the nose of the Rusty “ The World’s Longest Short Board” at 8’10”, he says: “ You’re not gonna catch anything on that thing.”
“ I guess I’ll do OK.” I reply. Thus challenged, by a man I can call Clancy O’Bannon, I scratch for every feeble comber that crawls my way and catch them all. I move left, go back to the right peak, looking for what’s not there. The best wave is a left. Phaneuf has called it quits early, and I am cooled off and ready to leave, so I ride one inside and then sit on the last bar, waiting. Clancy paddled up with a smug grin:
“ What’s the matter? Ya outta gas?”
In these circumstances I am never prepared to deal as dealt. Fonteyn or Phaneuf can reply so devastatingly to such insults so readily that they seem pre-primed. I suppose I had been forewarned by Clancy’s bucanneerist banter but I was so surprised at ridicule from an anonymous corner I was ill prepared. All I could say was “ Do you surf here all the time?’ Which obliquely might imply that Clancy was a bit of a buoy.
“ Yeah, this is my break. Where do you surf?” A fair question, since I had never seen Clumsy before. It allowed me enough time to discover some wit, even if subtle:
“ I guess I surf anywhere I want.”
28 August
Surfed. Swell surprisingly back up. Ojai was in full broil. Otterbein broke his board at Knuckleheads. Split the glass in the front third really, on one of those late drops. When I looked at it later it seemed like the foam was in tact, but a major deforming surgery would be required in order to re- launch. Otter has never cottoned to the Knuckle. You can tell from his tone of voice when we are making the where decision. I don’t think he even wants to go look at it because it will put Knuckleheads in play, but if the tide is high then its really the only call when the swell is small. And now his reluctance has borne out.
30 August
Did not surf the mysto swell. Picked over 2000 pounds of melons for the market and sundry boxes of beans and cucumbers on Saturday then got the store ready for Phaneuf’s birthday party. Delerium from the heat gave way to method. Watered up my beds of fall vegetables.
I knew the surf had to be something special because a 283 showed up and went 7.5. A northwest swell had been forecast, but not waves going nearly double overhead. Still, my inner Calvinist shouldered the mighty wheel of commerce. I spray the deck down to get rid of the food debris prior to the dinner rush, then head home to wash dust off myself.
Phaneuf shows up with pie plate eyeballs. He went to with nobody out and surfed til he could not paddle any more. There was also a 3.5 out of the south still but that 283 was the headline from Rincon to Oxnard Shores. Da-umn! Olivia made some really good birthday cakes. Francisco came to the party a little ripped. Sus Corez played with her band. Phaneuf diligently kept himself from bawling on about how tremendous the surf had been, but he gave himself away, walking around with a face like a puffer fish, holding something very, very big in check.
1 September 2009
Drove late with Pisser to low tide Knuckles breaking mostly from a west windswell and played tag with a truly Knucked-up crowd, including a huge, fries-eating specimen in a Fu Manchu who was probably an all-league down-lineman for the Nordhoff Rangers Championship team of 2003. He’s cruising around in the impact zone with swimfins and a boogie. I call him Nick Knuckles. He sort of sticks to me like an overly curious seal. Later his brother, Nobby, paddled out, all lobsterized and looking a bit beered up. I begin to slowly churn up the coast, chasing Pisser, who is now riding a nice big Huerta I bought from a neighbor for $250 a few years back, just to have a stash. Now he is enamored of the cruising power of the Huerta and the loss of his Robert August stings not so much.
Phaneuf shows, but he stays on the beach pitching the ball for Seed. He caught the swell earlier down at when things were perfect, so he doesn’t want to tarnish the tidy chunk of stoke he’s scored.
A bodysurfer bobbing near us keeps yelling at his two youngsters to:
WATCH OUT FOR THE SURFERS, BOYS!
But he’s facing us while howling out a warning. The kids are in the white water inside, blissing around. So he is effectively telling US to WATCH OUT FOR THE KIDS INSIDE!
I paddle on towards Trader Joes. I take Pisser’s heap home so he and John may continue dialoguing. I need to fire my sprinklers up. Its been another bake-off in Mira Monte. Hodge says it was 109 at his house.
2 September
Swell mighty diminished but I bring my gear to Oxnard anyway while I am picking up boxes at Calpine. I want to put all my onions and shallots in good storage for the fall. Phaneuf is going to head for a paddle in the harbor, but has nothing else going so we convene at Shores to observe a very nice day to go water skiing in the Santa Barbara Channel.
He is sure that will have waves. We arrive and there are waves. There is one guy out and its good enough for forty. It’s the first time I have ever surfed and it’s a daunting. The breaks at are sort of a steroidal Knuckleheads. The waves come right out of deep water, then leap on a bar and pitch. I whet my buds on a few small crashers, then go for the blue, and get pounded. Memo: need a shorter board for some of this daring-do. Ever the Mayor, Phaneuf chats up more of his many acquaintances. He used to live here, for 11 years, 37 steps to the edge of the water. Phaneuf is very conscious of his food intakes. He cannot qualify as a true food freak, ala ortholexia standards. He merely eats fruits and vegetables. A rather silent semi-vegan. Many of his friends, like Ed, who paddles out for a little late wall chasing, are also becoming more food conscious. John and Ed talk about nuts in smoothies and such, and when John mentions to Ed that I own a health food store, Ed takes notice. If Ed only knew I had wolfed half a Subway Italian special on the way over, and generally have very little control over my own ortho, he may not have had such a genuflective reaction.
3 September 2009
I have four full days left before I go to Hawaii so I gotta make the time count. Every procrastination is an immediacy. The list in my head is longer than any list I can write. We make short work of he CSA boxes, casually grind and then I retreat to do accounting chores at my desk. I have sworn an oath to not let the ocean tempt me. I won’t even look at CDIP, so firm is my resolve.
There’s a text bugle. I don’t know if I want to look at it, but I have to. It’s Phaneuf. “ Take a look at the cam,” he says. I look. C Street is running shoulder high on glass with plenty of waves from the steep south. Looks as delicious as a big slice of cold watermelon. CDIP does not confirm anything but a steep angled swell at nine seconds from the 155. Jimena’s last little gyration just west of Cape Vizcaino has spun a swell at us. It’s out of my hands now. We are going to Pitas. Its 97 degrees again, as for an alibi. John paddled Pitas the day before and ran into waist high sets on the Tudor Bar. Some teenage bikini girls were frolicking in an all time go-out. He even rode it on his paddle racer. My gear is elsewhere. I don’t even know where my wetsuit box is. Olivia walks in coincidentally with an old spring suit she found on a shelf outside. An omen for good. I probably left it there four years ago. Phaneuf swings by my house to pick up the Yater.
Mondos is still, bright and hot. “ One bad thing about your box is that we don’t have any sunblock.”
I know I will toast. “ Maybe one of these kind souls can share some of theirs.”
No one would deny Phaneuf a favor. Its like they know intuitively that The Mayor will repay them, or send a deputy to do so. A nice little surf family has a big bottle of the good stuff, and we get our squeezes. Their little boy says that Seed is a good dog and runs his little hands through his hot fur. He’s right about that. And crazy to fetch.
The tide at Pitas is dropping. We run into Rich McGrath on the beach; he’ll come out later on his ski. He says he’s been watching it all day. Pisser is coming too. He doesn’t need much prodding. Ojai is still on a spit. Little lines are sweeping in from the Tudor bar. It’s not more than waist high, but it’s ineffably satisfying: spud high walls in clear green water over golden sand. Phaneuf gets a 20 second ride and decides we better start recording the fifteen-second or better rides. I get a twelve. He rides far down the beach on a perfect wall until he’s a speck. It’s like a thirty.
Pisser shows up on Phaneuf’s stand up paddler. We share this and that and pull a three way for over fifteen seconds. We don’t mind a little lull. Then with rebel yells and goal line cheerleading the sets show again. McGrath is up at John and Mary’s pulling little spinners when he takes off. Pisser’s says he’s tired, but I won’t complain about nothing.
25 August 2009
South swell moving up all day. Towards four piled into Otter’s van with DocterDave and Pisser. Greg’s pissed-really heartbroken, because yesterday he drove away from C Street without tying down his beloved Robert August soft top and when he pulled onto the 33 he realized that somewhere between the lot and freeway it had sailed off. He never found it.
Rode flat on my back next to the boards watching backwards as the hot Eucalyptus branches waved in the wind with my head next to Dave’s knee while Pisser and Dave made homojokes on my behalf. I was glazed and tired. Phaneuf installed windows somewhere in the harbor all day and would meet us at the point, which held a low tide and head high to overhead sets when we arrived. CDIP was 4.1 at 14 from the 195.
Wolfpacked a peak at Stables. Everyone gave the Silverbacks elbow room with all our bigboard yooha bravado. We were catching all the waves in that zone so the crowd cleared nicely. Consistent surf rolling through. I nearly sent Pisser to the dentist with an errant footslip on a takeoff. He said he had thoughtlessly paused to admire the view when the Rusty suddenly came hurtling beakwards. The lefts were happening. Otter got a lot of long rights. Dave struggled doggedly.
As we made an exit I began to pick my way over the rocks toward shore and noted a woman combing her hair, appraising me as I tiptoed through the sand and boulders. Every time I took my eyes off the rocks she was still looking. I waited for Otter a minute then started back up the slippery stones. She cast further admiring looks while braiding her hair as she sat on the hood of her beefy black SUV and I rock stepped up to the embankment. As I stood up on the shelf I observed that it was the same woman who had snaked me two days previously.
“ What now?” I said to myself. “ She likes me?”
It was impossible to not give her a little wave when she kept beaming at me, though I felt like meat. “ What the hell?”
I caught Pisser by the elbow and told him about the woman. He gives a gander.
“ Hey, she’s cute,” he says.
Yellow police tape was strewn across the frontage road. Pisser said a guy had told him a woman had been struck in the road and killed. Her dog still lay dead on the pavement with the orange evening sun warming its lifeless fur. The woman was one of the homeless folks that wander up from the river bottom and hang around the bathroom. A wind-blown, scraggly couple sat clutching one another on the opposite sidewalk. They seemed too young to be bums, but I know age is no bar to poverty. There must have been nine cops leaning on their doors or milling about, staring at the spot where the dead woman had once lay.
26 August
Picked the CSA load early. Francisco and I had picked beans and squash the previous day, so gathering the vegetables was fairly easy. Had a good crew picking. Picked some nice melons and ate a bunch in the field. Ditched the FORAGER newsletter and rode down with Phaneuf to Knuckles. CDIP is going 3.0 from the 170 at 14 seconds from the south. Knuckies can probably be better but every element coalesced into satisfaction just short of perfection. Windless conditions on a rising tide near high with head high sets. Nailed a legitimate barrel going left- which was generally the only shoulder you could count on making. Phaneuf rode his little yellow flash. Crowd was minimal, with school back in session and summer on the wane.
Surfed again at Mondos in the afternoon on a lowering tide. Grace Buetti had been texting me about Mondos earlier, during the low tide. Said it was BIG! Grace was there with Belle, on Belle’s last day before going back to Colorado. Such earnestly dear young girls they are. Grace said she had misgivings about going out earlier. I said there was no need to prove anything.
Pisser showed up with Emilie. I wanted to run up to John and Mary’s to see if the waves I rode there in 1985 with Lee Gearhart were still breaking. Maybe Gearheart will still be up there on his little white diamond tail, scooting through on those hissing green walls from New Zealand. John and Greg decided to surf the Mondo’s shorebreak. Mondos reef looks like a scene from the Ventura County Fair: everyone’s here but the kids from Santa Paula with their show hogs.
There were waist high walls visible up toward Pitas. It was a long walk-not really that long but the longest walk to get to a surfspot this side of Sands Beach. The trek is so long people don’t want to make it. It takes ten to fifteen minutes. I would walk a lot farther to ride an empty sand-bottom point breaking shoulder high with not another soul within fifty yards of me. I passed two guys on longboards sitting on a clean little peak a hundred yards up from Mondos. They were barebacking it. When I got up to the Tudor House I paddled out. I was by myself . Gearheart had already gone in-twenty four years ago. He says he’s never surfed since he moved to New Mexico. He said the ocean was too crowded, too polluted. He was a good surfer. But there is no one out at John and Mary’s but me and there is ten to fifteen foot visibility in a lively sea with fish jumping and pelicans diving on them. The waves came at me and peaks broke here and then there, and closed out where earlier it had machined down the line. I took off into a weird looping bowl, made the drop, turned into a barrel and got hit in the head by the lip of the wave. As I tumbled backwards I began to remember that mussely rocks punctuate the Pitas bottom. I had seen none of them, so knew where none of them were. Perhaps I just missed getting a big mussel gash through the base of my skull. Rule Number Five: always land flat and protect your head from the rocks you can’t see.
I got five waves that all closed too quickly before me. If it had been beachbreak I would have been stoked to just get buried or make the takeoff, but it was the sand bottom of Pitas that can be on many days be so wonderfully walled and hollow, so the frustration was magnified by possibilities unattained merely because the swell was hitting straight from the south. The sun was going down. Instead of cruising down to Mondos I walked it. Pisser was going on about how he broke his board with his dick. There was no gyst to it until I saw he had delaminated the nose of the board he had borrowed from Otter. Greg had hit the rail with his pelvis just as both made contact with the sand on a Mondos sand whomper. He sat spread-legged in the sand, a pained but game look on his Jack of Spades face.
“ Not a good week for boards, man.”
“ No, but what hurts worse?”
“ Losing the Robert August, probably. Yeah, sure.”
27 August
Surfed. 105 degrees by one PM in the valley. Watered the nursery and motored to the coast, with John and Seed. Mondos was mushed but wet. I went out to the far reef and anchored in the eelgrass. A girl was surfing up there so I gave her all the room and waves she desired. There were few of them anyway. A ruddy guy in a handlebar mustache, maybe my age, which is 59, moves up on a long board and, observing the nose of the Rusty “ The World’s Longest Short Board” at 8’10”, he says: “ You’re not gonna catch anything on that thing.”
“ I guess I’ll do OK.” I reply. Thus challenged, by a man I can call Clancy O’Bannon, I scratch for every feeble comber that crawls my way and catch them all. I move left, go back to the right peak, looking for what’s not there. The best wave is a left. Phaneuf has called it quits early, and I am cooled off and ready to leave, so I ride one inside and then sit on the last bar, waiting. Clancy paddled up with a smug grin:
“ What’s the matter? Ya outta gas?”
In these circumstances I am never prepared to deal as dealt. Fonteyn or Phaneuf can reply so devastatingly to such insults so readily that they seem pre-primed. I suppose I had been forewarned by Clancy’s bucanneerist banter but I was so surprised at ridicule from an anonymous corner I was ill prepared. All I could say was “ Do you surf here all the time?’ Which obliquely might imply that Clancy was a bit of a buoy.
“ Yeah, this is my break. Where do you surf?” A fair question, since I had never seen Clumsy before. It allowed me enough time to discover some wit, even if subtle:
“ I guess I surf anywhere I want.”
28 August
Surfed. Swell surprisingly back up. Ojai was in full broil. Otterbein broke his board at Knuckleheads. Split the glass in the front third really, on one of those late drops. When I looked at it later it seemed like the foam was in tact, but a major deforming surgery would be required in order to re- launch. Otter has never cottoned to the Knuckle. You can tell from his tone of voice when we are making the where decision. I don’t think he even wants to go look at it because it will put Knuckleheads in play, but if the tide is high then its really the only call when the swell is small. And now his reluctance has borne out.
30 August
Did not surf the mysto swell. Picked over 2000 pounds of melons for the market and sundry boxes of beans and cucumbers on Saturday then got the store ready for Phaneuf’s birthday party. Delerium from the heat gave way to method. Watered up my beds of fall vegetables.
I knew the surf had to be something special because a 283 showed up and went 7.5. A northwest swell had been forecast, but not waves going nearly double overhead. Still, my inner Calvinist shouldered the mighty wheel of commerce. I spray the deck down to get rid of the food debris prior to the dinner rush, then head home to wash dust off myself.
Phaneuf shows up with pie plate eyeballs. He went to with nobody out and surfed til he could not paddle any more. There was also a 3.5 out of the south still but that 283 was the headline from Rincon to Oxnard Shores. Da-umn! Olivia made some really good birthday cakes. Francisco came to the party a little ripped. Sus Corez played with her band. Phaneuf diligently kept himself from bawling on about how tremendous the surf had been, but he gave himself away, walking around with a face like a puffer fish, holding something very, very big in check.
1 September 2009
Drove late with Pisser to low tide Knuckles breaking mostly from a west windswell and played tag with a truly Knucked-up crowd, including a huge, fries-eating specimen in a Fu Manchu who was probably an all-league down-lineman for the Nordhoff Rangers Championship team of 2003. He’s cruising around in the impact zone with swimfins and a boogie. I call him Nick Knuckles. He sort of sticks to me like an overly curious seal. Later his brother, Nobby, paddled out, all lobsterized and looking a bit beered up. I begin to slowly churn up the coast, chasing Pisser, who is now riding a nice big Huerta I bought from a neighbor for $250 a few years back, just to have a stash. Now he is enamored of the cruising power of the Huerta and the loss of his Robert August stings not so much.
Phaneuf shows, but he stays on the beach pitching the ball for Seed. He caught the swell earlier down at when things were perfect, so he doesn’t want to tarnish the tidy chunk of stoke he’s scored.
A bodysurfer bobbing near us keeps yelling at his two youngsters to:
WATCH OUT FOR THE SURFERS, BOYS!
But he’s facing us while howling out a warning. The kids are in the white water inside, blissing around. So he is effectively telling US to WATCH OUT FOR THE KIDS INSIDE!
I paddle on towards Trader Joes. I take Pisser’s heap home so he and John may continue dialoguing. I need to fire my sprinklers up. Its been another bake-off in Mira Monte. Hodge says it was 109 at his house.
2 September
Swell mighty diminished but I bring my gear to Oxnard anyway while I am picking up boxes at Calpine. I want to put all my onions and shallots in good storage for the fall. Phaneuf is going to head for a paddle in the harbor, but has nothing else going so we convene at Shores to observe a very nice day to go water skiing in the Santa Barbara Channel.
He is sure that will have waves. We arrive and there are waves. There is one guy out and its good enough for forty. It’s the first time I have ever surfed and it’s a daunting. The breaks at are sort of a steroidal Knuckleheads. The waves come right out of deep water, then leap on a bar and pitch. I whet my buds on a few small crashers, then go for the blue, and get pounded. Memo: need a shorter board for some of this daring-do. Ever the Mayor, Phaneuf chats up more of his many acquaintances. He used to live here, for 11 years, 37 steps to the edge of the water. Phaneuf is very conscious of his food intakes. He cannot qualify as a true food freak, ala ortholexia standards. He merely eats fruits and vegetables. A rather silent semi-vegan. Many of his friends, like Ed, who paddles out for a little late wall chasing, are also becoming more food conscious. John and Ed talk about nuts in smoothies and such, and when John mentions to Ed that I own a health food store, Ed takes notice. If Ed only knew I had wolfed half a Subway Italian special on the way over, and generally have very little control over my own ortho, he may not have had such a genuflective reaction.
3 September 2009
I have four full days left before I go to Hawaii so I gotta make the time count. Every procrastination is an immediacy. The list in my head is longer than any list I can write. We make short work of he CSA boxes, casually grind and then I retreat to do accounting chores at my desk. I have sworn an oath to not let the ocean tempt me. I won’t even look at CDIP, so firm is my resolve.
There’s a text bugle. I don’t know if I want to look at it, but I have to. It’s Phaneuf. “ Take a look at the cam,” he says. I look. C Street is running shoulder high on glass with plenty of waves from the steep south. Looks as delicious as a big slice of cold watermelon. CDIP does not confirm anything but a steep angled swell at nine seconds from the 155. Jimena’s last little gyration just west of Cape Vizcaino has spun a swell at us. It’s out of my hands now. We are going to Pitas. Its 97 degrees again, as for an alibi. John paddled Pitas the day before and ran into waist high sets on the Tudor Bar. Some teenage bikini girls were frolicking in an all time go-out. He even rode it on his paddle racer. My gear is elsewhere. I don’t even know where my wetsuit box is. Olivia walks in coincidentally with an old spring suit she found on a shelf outside. An omen for good. I probably left it there four years ago. Phaneuf swings by my house to pick up the Yater.
Mondos is still, bright and hot. “ One bad thing about your box is that we don’t have any sunblock.”
I know I will toast. “ Maybe one of these kind souls can share some of theirs.”
No one would deny Phaneuf a favor. Its like they know intuitively that The Mayor will repay them, or send a deputy to do so. A nice little surf family has a big bottle of the good stuff, and we get our squeezes. Their little boy says that Seed is a good dog and runs his little hands through his hot fur. He’s right about that. And crazy to fetch.
The tide at Pitas is dropping. We run into Rich McGrath on the beach; he’ll come out later on his ski. He says he’s been watching it all day. Pisser is coming too. He doesn’t need much prodding. Ojai is still on a spit. Little lines are sweeping in from the Tudor bar. It’s not more than waist high, but it’s ineffably satisfying: spud high walls in clear green water over golden sand. Phaneuf gets a 20 second ride and decides we better start recording the fifteen-second or better rides. I get a twelve. He rides far down the beach on a perfect wall until he’s a speck. It’s like a thirty.
Pisser shows up on Phaneuf’s stand up paddler. We share this and that and pull a three way for over fifteen seconds. We don’t mind a little lull. Then with rebel yells and goal line cheerleading the sets show again. McGrath is up at John and Mary’s pulling little spinners when he takes off. Pisser’s says he’s tired, but I won’t complain about nothing.
SURF REPORT The Inner Kook
SURF REPORT
The Inner Kook
21 August 2009
CDIP showed a 2.1 at 20 from the 195 so I chased it with Otter. Looked at unrideable Nucklehead. Chugged down to the cove at California Street, sat on the wall watching three guys not really ride, but if the tide was lower it would have been better. Went home dry.
22 August 2009
Jonesing for the GodAlmighty swell. No surf for a week. Now its arrived. Gotta pick for the farmers market. Up early and run through the common chore tedium. Load the drawers with cash. ThisThatThisThat. Load the truck with boxes. Gotta dump and clean the compost buckets, haul the perishables to the shade. Water the nursery. Pick cucumbers. Prince and Otter already heading down to the point. They plan to get it with the tide low and coming up, i.e., perfectly timed. Eventually I plan to head down with Phaneuf. Now it’s 2.7 feet from 185 degrees south with 17 second intervals.
Phaneuf’s Monika, Katy-O and Olivia have been eating biscotti and drinking espresso, picking basil in full chuckle. They independently decided to wear their colored woolen caps. Calvinism and Hedonism tear my psyche but I go anyway, figuring I can catch up in the early PM once my Jones is doused. Down Santa Ana to the 33, Phaneuf is receiving and relaying reports on his two-way wrist radio. I stare at the DIP like a little digital talisman as if expecting mysteries to be revealed.
The Nuckle is walled. John’s friend Dave is just getting out of the water. Dave eats at the Farmer and the Cook every lunch apparently, but I do not recognize him wet in neoprene without a sandwich in his hand. Dave says it was “pretty good an hour ago.” Drawing scant comfort, we impetuously haul to Ventura Point. Otter and Prince are buttoning up their shirts, and Pisser says it was “ pretty good an hour ago.” The tide is beginning to swamp The Point.
“ Looks like we better get out there if we’re going to before this gets funky.”
I agree, but its already getting funky. On a 5.5 foot tide, small waves that might have been ridden slosh onto the rocks. Larger waves stand and wobble toward shore uncertainly like your drunk grandpa. The larger sets today have three waves per, so forty people chase three waves breaking on two or three peaks, resulting in heightened competitive anxiety. I don’t recognize many people. A young guy is doing well inside on a long board so I figure to get some modest waves under my belt before I paddle out to park with the other buoys. Everybody is sitting. Inside its pretty Maytag, with the churning backwash slopping up the incoming wave. There’s a lot of depressing bouncing around. I snag a couple of sudden chest high lefts that are somewhat rewarding. I should have stayed there.
We wander to (the) Pipe “ The only show in town.” Says Phaneuf. I find myself in miraculous position on a fair comber and as I push off, the board cleaves through some kelp ( its that close to shore) entangling my right hand. The ensuing struggle and ignominious flop alter lineup chemistry perceptibly.
After a few sets, I am back at the gate, paddling for a nice waist high slosher. A woman to my right has been surfing out there for awhile. She begins to paddle as well, in rather close proximity, and as the rapturous moment arrives in which to launch, she turns to me and announces:
“ I’ve got it.”
I had remained so shamed by going full Doofus on my previous attempt that I could say nothing back but: “Go then.”
I had full position and had been paddling earlier, so my case for primacy was fairly air-tight, except for the Doofus Factor. I plainly did not deserve the wave, especially if so few of them were coming our way. Waste not want not, eh, cherie?
So I pulled up, dragging the tail of the board down into the wave in an abject demonstration of undignified defeat. The wave surged around my knees. What should I have done, dropped in on her tail block?
I had been snaked by a lady who had announced the snaking like some mild rattler on the side of the path, as if to say “ Here I am!”
And of course I had let her on. Rattlers own the path. She was a stylish, fit gal, perhaps forty-five years old, who had surfed well with nice equipment, including one of those Patagonia water caps I thought I wanted-until being sullied by a woman wearing one. From afar I later envied the wave she laid on her jazzy arch-stance for.
Stung with condemnation I meandered back into the anonymous lineup, then suddenly brightened with an absurd thought. I should just write about my defeat in order to rescue the entire event from contemptible mediocrity. The opportunity for self-ridicule usually yields a whiff of comedy. Nontheless, I could not erase that large yellow D that had been stenciled on my back. It was as if I could read the thoughts of some in the thinning crowd: Doofus! Kook! Geezer! But no doubt they paid me little mind or merely pitied me.
We retreated to the middle break, fully Maytagging now at peak tide. I prayed for any feeble roller to appear and send me to shore. My last wave made up for nothing, but I rode it without injuring myself or others, nor was further humiliated.
The score, based on a three wave minimum, left me feeling short two. I had ridden six waves in one hour, flopped one, gotten pounded from behind on a late take-off, ridden two zippy lefts and one fair right, and lost innumerable waves on the snaking. It was like hitting into the water hazard on the final hole in golf.
24 August 2009
In the evening of the Great Snaking, the swell registered 3.5 from the 180. Sunday morning, I ferried produce to the farmers market, built the stall with O and Katy and left with John at 10. Phaneuf determined from various detailed reports that Hollywood was out, Hueneme was out, the wind forecast was miraculously not showing up, and that there was a big contest at Shores. So it was to be Nuckles on a burgeoning tide, which was suitable. After my last rising tide go-out at Ventura Point I was not ready to subject myself to another crowded moment in the washtub.
Ojai State Beach was a paradise of glassy surf as we hove to, next to Brian Hugheart, an old friend of John’s. Brian and I are the same age more or less. Brian had given John his first board and dated his sister. Brian has an 8 foot fish that seems like a nice template to try. Wide and dense with foam. The waves are about as good as it gets. We are specifically more towards Trader Joes than Nuckleheads. Its all going off between two and four feet, head high or bigger on the set waves. Phaneuf suggests that riding these semi-closeouts will sharpen our “ chops” when the winter arrives. Lots of people lots of peaks. I get a enough waves to redeem my bent soul from yesterday and then put some in the bank . The lefhanded drops yield excitement.. If the place needs a name later I can always call that medium bar Redemptions. There is a big dip in the asphalt down there I nearly rolled into once.
The Inner Kook
21 August 2009
CDIP showed a 2.1 at 20 from the 195 so I chased it with Otter. Looked at unrideable Nucklehead. Chugged down to the cove at California Street, sat on the wall watching three guys not really ride, but if the tide was lower it would have been better. Went home dry.
22 August 2009
Jonesing for the GodAlmighty swell. No surf for a week. Now its arrived. Gotta pick for the farmers market. Up early and run through the common chore tedium. Load the drawers with cash. ThisThatThisThat. Load the truck with boxes. Gotta dump and clean the compost buckets, haul the perishables to the shade. Water the nursery. Pick cucumbers. Prince and Otter already heading down to the point. They plan to get it with the tide low and coming up, i.e., perfectly timed. Eventually I plan to head down with Phaneuf. Now it’s 2.7 feet from 185 degrees south with 17 second intervals.
Phaneuf’s Monika, Katy-O and Olivia have been eating biscotti and drinking espresso, picking basil in full chuckle. They independently decided to wear their colored woolen caps. Calvinism and Hedonism tear my psyche but I go anyway, figuring I can catch up in the early PM once my Jones is doused. Down Santa Ana to the 33, Phaneuf is receiving and relaying reports on his two-way wrist radio. I stare at the DIP like a little digital talisman as if expecting mysteries to be revealed.
The Nuckle is walled. John’s friend Dave is just getting out of the water. Dave eats at the Farmer and the Cook every lunch apparently, but I do not recognize him wet in neoprene without a sandwich in his hand. Dave says it was “pretty good an hour ago.” Drawing scant comfort, we impetuously haul to Ventura Point. Otter and Prince are buttoning up their shirts, and Pisser says it was “ pretty good an hour ago.” The tide is beginning to swamp The Point.
“ Looks like we better get out there if we’re going to before this gets funky.”
I agree, but its already getting funky. On a 5.5 foot tide, small waves that might have been ridden slosh onto the rocks. Larger waves stand and wobble toward shore uncertainly like your drunk grandpa. The larger sets today have three waves per, so forty people chase three waves breaking on two or three peaks, resulting in heightened competitive anxiety. I don’t recognize many people. A young guy is doing well inside on a long board so I figure to get some modest waves under my belt before I paddle out to park with the other buoys. Everybody is sitting. Inside its pretty Maytag, with the churning backwash slopping up the incoming wave. There’s a lot of depressing bouncing around. I snag a couple of sudden chest high lefts that are somewhat rewarding. I should have stayed there.
We wander to (the) Pipe “ The only show in town.” Says Phaneuf. I find myself in miraculous position on a fair comber and as I push off, the board cleaves through some kelp ( its that close to shore) entangling my right hand. The ensuing struggle and ignominious flop alter lineup chemistry perceptibly.
After a few sets, I am back at the gate, paddling for a nice waist high slosher. A woman to my right has been surfing out there for awhile. She begins to paddle as well, in rather close proximity, and as the rapturous moment arrives in which to launch, she turns to me and announces:
“ I’ve got it.”
I had remained so shamed by going full Doofus on my previous attempt that I could say nothing back but: “Go then.”
I had full position and had been paddling earlier, so my case for primacy was fairly air-tight, except for the Doofus Factor. I plainly did not deserve the wave, especially if so few of them were coming our way. Waste not want not, eh, cherie?
So I pulled up, dragging the tail of the board down into the wave in an abject demonstration of undignified defeat. The wave surged around my knees. What should I have done, dropped in on her tail block?
I had been snaked by a lady who had announced the snaking like some mild rattler on the side of the path, as if to say “ Here I am!”
And of course I had let her on. Rattlers own the path. She was a stylish, fit gal, perhaps forty-five years old, who had surfed well with nice equipment, including one of those Patagonia water caps I thought I wanted-until being sullied by a woman wearing one. From afar I later envied the wave she laid on her jazzy arch-stance for.
Stung with condemnation I meandered back into the anonymous lineup, then suddenly brightened with an absurd thought. I should just write about my defeat in order to rescue the entire event from contemptible mediocrity. The opportunity for self-ridicule usually yields a whiff of comedy. Nontheless, I could not erase that large yellow D that had been stenciled on my back. It was as if I could read the thoughts of some in the thinning crowd: Doofus! Kook! Geezer! But no doubt they paid me little mind or merely pitied me.
We retreated to the middle break, fully Maytagging now at peak tide. I prayed for any feeble roller to appear and send me to shore. My last wave made up for nothing, but I rode it without injuring myself or others, nor was further humiliated.
The score, based on a three wave minimum, left me feeling short two. I had ridden six waves in one hour, flopped one, gotten pounded from behind on a late take-off, ridden two zippy lefts and one fair right, and lost innumerable waves on the snaking. It was like hitting into the water hazard on the final hole in golf.
24 August 2009
In the evening of the Great Snaking, the swell registered 3.5 from the 180. Sunday morning, I ferried produce to the farmers market, built the stall with O and Katy and left with John at 10. Phaneuf determined from various detailed reports that Hollywood was out, Hueneme was out, the wind forecast was miraculously not showing up, and that there was a big contest at Shores. So it was to be Nuckles on a burgeoning tide, which was suitable. After my last rising tide go-out at Ventura Point I was not ready to subject myself to another crowded moment in the washtub.
Ojai State Beach was a paradise of glassy surf as we hove to, next to Brian Hugheart, an old friend of John’s. Brian and I are the same age more or less. Brian had given John his first board and dated his sister. Brian has an 8 foot fish that seems like a nice template to try. Wide and dense with foam. The waves are about as good as it gets. We are specifically more towards Trader Joes than Nuckleheads. Its all going off between two and four feet, head high or bigger on the set waves. Phaneuf suggests that riding these semi-closeouts will sharpen our “ chops” when the winter arrives. Lots of people lots of peaks. I get a enough waves to redeem my bent soul from yesterday and then put some in the bank . The lefhanded drops yield excitement.. If the place needs a name later I can always call that medium bar Redemptions. There is a big dip in the asphalt down there I nearly rolled into once.
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