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Provided by 805surf.com
About three days into my prison sentence, my friend Tim calls. Apparently the recent rains have carved out a playful set of sandbars down in the South Bay. Rumor has it that a certain beach break is peaky, hollow, and all time. He goes on and on about the session he scored on Tuesday with only a handful of guys out. By now I’m irate. I don’t want to hear any of this.
Green with envy, I’m easily convinced to sneak out tomorrow morning for a drive down south in hopes of a repeat session. The plan is to leave before my mom wakes up. We’ll jump in Tim’s Toyota Tacoma and make the trip down. I should make it back home with plenty of time. I realize that if I’m caught, my mom’s going to triple my punishment. But this seems like a fool proof plan. And based on Tim’s description of the potential surfing conditions, it’s worth the risk.
My alarm clock buzzes at 4:45am on the dot. I’m already awake. At 5:02 I’m shuffling down the hallway with my wetsuit hanging over my left shoulder. I creep out the backdoor and slip passed the side gate. Tim’s waiting two houses down with the engine running. We greet each other with a simple head nod before driving off into the crisp morning.
By 5:15 we’re heading south on Pacific Coast Highway. The moonlight illuminates the playful ground swell lines as they break along Zuma Beach. The surf looks to be about head high with a glassy ocean surface. The tide’s low, but slowly building.
Starving for breakfast, we pull into a Malibu McDonalds and feast on a couple hash browns. They’re greasy but they do the trick. Tim keeps rambling on and on about how great his last session was. We turn out the parking lot and continue our journey south. By now the sun is starting to rise, turning the sky into bright hues of red and purple set against the familiar terrain.
Coming into Santa Monica at about 6:30, we hit some morning traffic and bail the freeway in hopes that the coastal route will be less congested. As we drive in front of LAX and glance out at Dockweiler Beach, Tim comments that the winds are light from the east… offshore. Nice. The long period swell looks uniform and organized. I comment to Tim that we could’ve saved some gas by just going to Strand. He reassures me that this’ll be worth it. I look out the window as a Southwest Airlines jet roars overhead.
Our eyes light up. Perfect overhead lines bowling right and left directly in front of a storm drain outlet… spitting softly as each barrel rolls to the shoulder. The term phenomenal fits well here as a description. Score. No joggers on the beach, no grumpy locals, no morning gym class, there’s only three other souls in sight. It’s kind of creepy. Where the hell is everyone? Tim sneers that this actually looks better than Tuesday did. The winds are a light offshore from the northeast. The sun’s rising over the city and refracting its light through the coastal haze. Another set rolls through holding the same uniform shape as the previous set. It’s a Friday morning in December and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.
With ear to ear grins, we sprint back to the truck (almost getting run over by a city bus in the process). Frantically, we fumble to get our wetsuits on. Within five minutes we’re paddling out.
For the next three hours, Tim and I trade off flawless, groomed, bowling sandbar peaks. The storm drain had managed to displace a reasonable amount of sand, causing the epic shape to hold all the way through the tidal swing. The abnormal water depths spawned by the sand movement create a quasi side wave that would accelerate you down the perfectly tapered shoulders. Sets would stack up steep on the outside and push all the way to the inside section before pitching into massive egg-shaped pits. Maintaining your line and keeping your speed was critical as the waves sucked up quickly over the fresh sandbar and would spit lightly at the ramping end section. As we rode the mid morning tide push, the waves would slow down and hold up before breaking, giving you a better opportunity to adjust your angle and approach. Aerials, pits, floaters, snaps… this was the day to empty your bag of tricks.
By 10am, we’re both exhausted. With at least 50 waves under each of our belts…we decide to call it a day. We each catch one last wave in. As we make our way over to the showers, the sea breezes pick up. Tim kicks some sand at me and laughs how we couldn’t have timed that any better.
On the ride back home while listening to my Jack Johnson CD, we kid each other about who got the wave of the day.
“No my pit was wayyyy deeper than yours.”
“That’s crap Tim, I was stalling on the foamball… yeah whatever man.”
We just smile and laugh.
Mission complete.
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