One Wave

Winter had been the worst in recent memory. Granted, many comfortable days were spent in the sunny, 70-degree range--plus or minus; rain came only sparingly--and usually only briefly whispered, if at all; most San Diego County residents reveled in the fantastic “outdoor” weather we were receiving. For me (and local surfers alike), though, winter usually means weeks of head-high waves, intermingled with windy death-slop, a handful of memorable days of the monster stuff sucking the reefs dry, and the occasional small-to-flat spell or two. (“Spell or two” I said.) But what we, as neighbor waveriders, experienced these past five months was nothing less than a travesty--a pure dearth of workable surf.

Kicking off fall’s first few weeks with a bang and peaking with a Thanksgiving-size feast of holiday bombs, Winter ’01/’02 had a very promising beginning. Guns were sought and prepared. Training regimens run. The next time it turned on we’d be ready to charge into battle! But Mother Nature’s forces were never summoned--no waves came. (Well, once, in a decent showing of surf to bring in the New Year, but not much else.)



It was flatty McFlat Flat. Charts were considered. Forecasts mulled over. Longboards sought. “I herd there’s surf comin’ nex’ week” was a commonly unconfirmed rumor. Day after dismal day, one-footers (read: bumpy knee-highers) was all she’d muster. The daily surf check consisted of at least a buddy or two (surfing solo was a tough sell) scooping the scene from The View to Last Resort, sometimes settling on trimming the logs at a dribbling reefbreak (shortboarding was rarely an option) but mostly just calling it quits and seeking out some other, “outdoor” activity. Golf is a popular favorite, but harsh on the average surfer’s budget; shooting hoops and tennis are fun, free and healthy, too. Many times, however, surf-starved boredom became reason enough for spending the afternoons throwing up a few twelve-oz. curls. Yep, what suffered most this winter were the collective waistbands of local surfers dependant upon the ocean for exercise. (Fighting mine, to be sure, was no easy task.)

So when an early southwest swell made most of the models and was to show on a few days that just happened to be respite from my miserable day job, I seized the opportunity for a quick surf trip a couple hours north and eons away. I am easy to please; I knew all I needed was one, long, clean pointbreak wave to regain some surf stoke.

I, accompanied by another surfer serious about catching quality waves (and also quite despondent about this winter’s poor output), was to make a pre-dawn run in his Toyota 4-Runner up the interstate maze and land for the sunrise session at Malibu. Then, establish a base campsite at Arroyo Secos for the night, relax a bit before an evening go-out at the rocky pointbreak there, grind dinner, burn a faux log and throw back a few pops, crash for an early pass-out and wake-up with the bunnies and birds, have another surf somewhere between Leo Carillo and Topanga and cruise home. 4:00 A.M. was the call; I packed my tent, bags, cooler, wetsuits, 1970s Sunset 6’3” twin-fin and 9’5” Kevin Connelly noserider, set the alarm and rested before the pick-up.

At 10:30 p.m. that night, unfortunately, (my so-called-bro) Brian made an abort mission call (due to lackluster, in his eyes, reports and a hit-or-miss swell window). “Are you serious?” I remember letting out. I was distraught. I was all packed and all stoked to get some clean righthanders. (Had a beer and pondered.) Fuck it, I would take my truck and go solo. (One beer turned to four, so I would make my dash at 9:00 a.m. and dodge traffic.)

Monday morning, T-minus one hour ‘til my departure: I would give my boy one last chance to accompany me. I dialed his cell, he was on his way back up from checking Windansea and was back into making the run--just had to pick up a longboard in Cardiff first. Loaded up his car and got on I-5 soon thereafter, made good time and hit The ‘Bu about 11. Sunny, about 80-degrees out, two-to-three foot south swell hugging the point, nice sets, crowded.

We knew what to expect here--pristine waves and hostile crowds--but just wanted to score one, good, connecting wave each with no shoulder-hoppers. (Not a problem at most breaks, but this was Malibu, and the local troops were starving after a long, dry winter.) Readied ourselves along the highway and scurried, longboards under arms, into the polluted lineup to scrap. A seasoned canyon resident and Malibu surfer during my college years, I made the old swipes underneath the stream of longboards and found a couple warm-up rides over the fresh sandbar and into the inside lane. Many new faces snaked and claimed. This place is a joke, I laughed to myself like always. Some friendly smiles and flying noserides brought me to ease.

At one point, about an hour deep, I stole one at Kiddie Bowl and was on the paddle back up when I saw Brian, unchallenged, grabbing a nice line outside. Riding a racy 10-foot pintail speedster (shaped by Hank Warner and definitely Skip Frye-inspired) Brian instantly dubbed The Lightning Rod after the first wave, his tell-tale, swooping bottom turn with arms dangling low at his sides led to a top-turn/re-angle before really taking her through her gears for the fast wall that spun over the sand. Two local alpha males positioned themselves as to burn him, but a stout hooting whistle from my lips directed at my excitedly-trimming friend pulled them back. He passed, on the afterburners, somehow took that beast off the top a couple times and gassed that wave for its innards. There it was; he got his wave.

My two-hour session yielded some memories--the clean-but-closed-out barrel ride I foolishly slid into on the Harry’s surf shop label Warner before getting flipped upside-down and getting smacked in the forehead with its rail, a few, long, toe-clenching tip rides, and the leaning ten-over into head-dip at the end of my go-out--but a piercing hunger for Mexican food and an overall dissonance with the Malibu mob made sure my one great wave would not happen before burrito, at least.

One La Salsa meal (personally, I went with two tacos) and grocery store stop later, we made the twenty-minute jaunt north past Point Dume--which we could see was working well--to the state park. Chose the space, table and fire ring, (grabbed an ice-cold Budweiser—hell, I was vacationing!) broke down the 4-Runner, erected the tent, grabbed the skateboard and kicked down to the beach to check the conditions. It was obvious the wind was a factor from the whitecaps we witnessed on the drive up, but it seemed to be swirling from within the canyon and turning offshore. My thoughts were confirmed upon first gaze--reeling from behind the rock pile and into the bay, heavy offshores battled onshores just outside the kelp bank. I knew it was probably lightly breezing offshore down at Malibu due to its unique geography, but the sets were coming in with decent size here, and neither of us wanted to trek back to The ‘Bu and battle. We would have to wait for the tide to recover and catch the last evening light (if we could wait that long).

We had time to kill, and energy to revive. We dried the wetsuits, set up the back of the 4-Runner for bedtime mode, read the latest Surfer and Surfer’s Journal, shared a smoke. I plugged in the headphones, skated to the end of the campground, took a leisurely hike--even found a solitary rope swing and had about seven or nine, therapeutic swings--checked the surf a few more times, and ate some junk food. 5:00 came and we could wait no longer--the slow rally began to re-wetsuit, lock the boards and truck up, and walk the trail to the shore. Thank God (and Bjorn at Stewart SS, too) I bought booties this year.



The tide was still low enough that reef protruded the paddle-out zone and inside, but the big rock was sucking up sweetly and pumping out tall, quick runners with a perfectly-stretched trough that ran and ran--daring anyone to keep up--before viciously bending across the beachsand and exploding into a half-mile wall. (Sure am glad I opted for the short, thick, bump-roundtail twinnie I brought along.)

A mistimed jump landed me fin down and ego broken on a rock, but it was smooth sailing from there. Speaking of sailing, a pack of speeding sailboarders were slaloming from a few hundreds yards out and back, weaving through the inside pack; the lifeguards were furiously calling them out of the water, but no one rode in. (From what I can guess, it looked like prime conditions for that sort of sport.)

Come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t such easy waters and purple sunsets. The wind was making the paddle up the point to the rock long and bumpy, and I remember closing my eyes for periods because of the awkward spray. Once outside, a tight crew stuck close to the razor clam-ridden stone. If a good wave was to be scored I was going to have to infiltrate the local band and steal a bomb from between the outside longboard set and the rock-huggers while all backs are all turned, or so I thought. A short stint of sitting there only bore some mediocre, waist-high leftovers that nobody else even looked at. I paddled down and over a bit and tried my luck at the next rock pile in--the one being torn over by the sailboarders. A set pumped through, but each wave erratically churned and shut down as it passed over the nasty boils, leaving me behind the peak to watch the strapped sailors push away to the staircase.

Meanwhile, Brian was kicking out of a dandy at the main peak every time I glanced over; I couldn’t find a thing. As if some sort of charity (eerily on cue), though, I looked out to the beds as a handful of thick shifters made there presence known. The pack scrambled, but the angle left most too deep--most, but not I.

I let one pass and spotted my take-off spot on the following. Paddled hard to it. Over-head, for sure, and curling nicely. No one would make it behind me. I spun the little plug around and gave a couple kicks until I felt the face pick me up. The rush of the drop and subsequent bottom-turn kicked the adrenalin in and opened my eyes widely. (It seemed so long since last we’d met.) Boil section number two would not be a factor, and, actually, formed a little whitewater crumble to kiss with my two fins and duct taped-tail as I passed. Made another drop just edging the rocky shallows and reared my head up to see--in disbelief, really--the feathering wall in front of me bending backward just twenty yards in front. It was go time. (Why not? I thought.) Both feet gave an instinctual scoot forward to engage more rail, my arms reached to the heavens (in my best Mark Richards speed-burst impersonation), I focused and drove an up-and-down, horizontal S line for as much acreage as the wave would offer. Truly, the distance covered (from just inside the main peak to past the wooden staircase--which happened to be laden with cops, lifeguards and spectators viewing the whole scene--amazed me. This beat ol’ board really worked. Eventually, I saw my exit point, but had mustered a tank load of speed I wasn’t willing to waste. I sized up two set-up pumps and timed a whipping whitewater ride over the liquid burm and down the oncoming curl into a clean landing.

That was it, I figured; that was the wave I came to get and will be the highlight of the story I’d tell my friends once I returned home. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a better wave. Well, maybe on a Rincon run in November; probably not at Swami’s this season. I noticed how far I had made it from my take-off and both smiled at my accomplishment and winced at the return paddle.

I was wrong, however; I would score more. My little seat between crews paid dividends for a few more sets, and I hopped probably three other, insane peelers just like the first, possibly better in a case or two. I met up with my comrade a little later and told him of my spoils, but he seemed a bit distraught, and just muttered something about not being on his A-game out there and even falling--kookin’ it on the drop, basically--treacherously close to the dredging rock.

Story by Ryan Smith

Editor’s Note: Unfortunately, a bad batch of store-bought fried chicken eaten fireside (or, perhaps, it was the California steak burrito, even the bevy of Budweiser and Camel Wides) devastated the bowels of our 4-Runner pilot, rendering him too bitter to paddle out anywhere the next morning and leaving the south swell behind us, prematurely.