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\u2019t worth the gas money it took to get here.<\/p>\n
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\u2019 more wear on these soles. It barely covered the bills, but I had a spot in a cramped, too-many-dudes\u2019 apartment, right on the sand; dude\u2019s trying to become men, or men trying to remain young dudes.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
The old toes, in desperate need of lotion from years barefootin\u2019 in the sea, waited near wet suits and longboards\u2013conditions 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 \u201cAmerica\u2019s Finest City\u201d traffic jams, but at least they were retired.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow\u2019s it looking, bro?\u201d I asked, swiping away leftover sawdust, at one of the mangy, desert-rat-beards. The others garbled slurs in their golden-year frustration.<\/p>\n
\u201cShitty… like the price tag on these gaudy beach-front porches popping up everywhere… shit was better before the wealth ruined things, round here,\u201d 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).<\/p>\n
The remainder of the frustrated, elderly men filed out after him. Sheezer arrived, fresh off his office\u2013third-eye blinded from artificial light\u2013job; 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.<\/p>\n
\u201cWater\u2019s 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,\u201d Sheezer said, catching the lip of a bright idea.<\/p>\n
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\u2013just thick enough to keep ya comfortable, out there. The water isn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Straight belly-surfing bad boys, making the most of a situation that older eyes couldn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bet they wished they had caught us before we swam out to the weighty breaker sets,\u201d I hollered, as we dove between heavy swell crashes.<\/p>\n
\u201cHell yeah, they think we will drown out here… and they don\u2019t 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,\u201d Sheezer added, short of breath\u2013maybe we were pushing our luck.<\/p>\n
Although, it wasn\u2019t our first wave-sliding-rodeo. We were good swimmers, and rip-tide-relief\u2013using the ocean\u2019s energy\u2013removes 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\u2013perhaps that\u2019s life… keep pushing through rough water.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome days, it just ain\u2019t perfect, and you gotta be fluid with what the days given to ya,\u201d Sheezer said, as we treaded momentarily.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlter your mode and manipulate your approach for anything life serves up\u2013let the other mouths drown in complaints and frustrations,\u201d Shanders added, and I snaked the next wave.<\/p>\n
Later that night, at the Coastal\u2013our local dive bar\u2013the 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.<\/p>\n
Sheezer said, \u201cWhy don\u2019t you fellas’ belly-glide out there… we did, and didn\u2019t miss a wave.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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