Harsh breakers smashed the shallows. Up the street, where the concrete boardwalk edge meets the sand is a vantage point, to evaluate the waves. A group of trunks hung over dismal toes, itching to paddle out. You could tell from their crusty faces; the shoulder effort wasn’t worth the gas money it took to get here.
My boots scuffed against the uneven alley pavement walking up to peep a glance, for myself. Another lumber-hucking workday in the yard had put a lil’ more wear on these soles. It barely covered the bills, but I had a spot in a cramped, too-many-dudes’ apartment, right on the sand; dude’s trying to become men, or men trying to remain young dudes.
The May-Gray, or was it June-Gloom? Hard to say in retrospect… still might be some sand affecting my brainwaves… in any case, the clouds seemed to hang around heavier and longer like a foul mood during those transitional summer months.
The old toes, in desperate need of lotion from years barefootin’ in the sea, waited near wet suits and longboards–conditions pumped hard, and a board snap was guaranteed. The lifted trucks would be firing up soon, bound for East County. A wasted afternoon, no waves and stuck in “America’s Finest City” traffic jams, but at least they were retired.
“How’s it looking, bro?” I asked, swiping away leftover sawdust, at one of the mangy, desert-rat-beards. The others garbled slurs in their golden-year frustration.
“Shitty… like the price tag on these gaudy beach-front porches popping up everywhere… shit was better before the wealth ruined things, round here,” the desert-rat said, his skin had a year or two till a melanoma diagnosis. Then he shuffled off, angry arms struggling to hoist up his single-fin log (longboard).
The remainder of the frustrated, elderly men filed out after him. Sheezer arrived, fresh off his office–third-eye blinded from artificial light–job; located in the Gaslamp Downtown. We evaluated the stupidity of paddling out to the line up with boards in an 8 to 10-foot punishing swell. The fresh, sea air was better than our muggy, stuffy bro-smelling apartment for hanging out.
“Water’s prolly warm ‘nough to not fully suit up… what you think ’bout tossing fins on, and body sliding these nasty breakers? Green-room action is better than no action at all,” Sheezer said, catching the lip of a bright idea.
We rushed back to our cramped casa and changed into faded trunks that displayed our dedication to logging beach hours. We tossed on wet-suit-tops–just thick enough to keep ya comfortable, out there. The water isn’t hot by any means. SoCal is a desert, and those invasive, purely for appearance, palm trees breed a false tropical vibration. Dress for the image you want to convey.
Shanders arrived and no update was needed to get in the flow. We sprinted to the whitewash, rubber flippers in hand, slid them on and swam like shark bait out to the action.
Straight belly-surfing bad boys, making the most of a situation that older eyes couldn’t see the value in. Our heads bobbed like buoys markers snapped loose from crab pots, snagging free-range barrels. The red shorts (lifeguards), back on dry sand, shook nervously on rustic perches, dressed up with a fresh coat of paint for a new surf season.
“I bet they wished they had caught us before we swam out to the weighty breaker sets,” I hollered, as we dove between heavy swell crashes.
“Hell yeah, they think we will drown out here… and they don’t wanna get wet. The power of the ocean is an optical illusion… it looks inviting from the shoreline view, but rapidly gets dangerous in the action. It can be a regretful type of sandy miscalculation that sends tourists swiftly to the depths of a Davey Jones death,” Sheezer added, short of breath–maybe we were pushing our luck.
Although, it wasn’t our first wave-sliding-rodeo. We were good swimmers, and rip-tide-relief–using the ocean’s energy–removes lung-busting effort that comes with aggressive shoulder strokes. Constant water treading can tire a man out quickly, and by the time you get into proper take-off position for a wave you’re too zapped to catch it–perhaps that’s life… keep pushing through rough water.
“Some days, it just ain’t perfect, and you gotta be fluid with what the days given to ya,” Sheezer said, as we treaded momentarily.
“Alter your mode and manipulate your approach for anything life serves up–let the other mouths drown in complaints and frustrations,” Shanders added, and I snaked the next wave.
Later that night, at the Coastal–our local dive bar–the neon lights complimented the glow in our teeth, and we heard old-timers, sitting on packed wallets, spew complaints about crappy waves unable to shift objectives.
Sheezer said, “Why don’t you fellas’ belly-glide out there… we did, and didn’t miss a wave.”
The irritable old-timers brushed off the remark that opposed their conventional approach to surfable standards. We let them be and drank with bikinis that didn’t care about sunlight. The bartender dropped off fresh margaritas with a touch of mango, and the old-timers looked sour; their grimaces sipped beers that had only changed labels in recent years.
