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| The Diary of Southside: Making My Way Home |
| Written by Larry Kuechlin on Monday, 09 March 2009 21:07
 Printer Friendly | ||
|
3/05: 4-6’ SW with outside sets to 10 feet. At Garbage Beach under perfect sun and slight offshore breezes. On the 11’ Mickey Munoz Glide with Bill and Dusty.
I’ve spoken a lot about perfection in this series, but I keep having to raise the bar on perfection: a redefinition of life as is should be.
March 5th was just such a redefinition.
Days like today are why people drive their gremmie laden trucks and vans down PCH from the hell holes of Los Angeles and Orange County to the Sunset Cliffs
paddle out
and then never leave.
Garbage Beach is not what you would think. Its name keeps people from ever visiting, and I guess that is why the locals never want to find a better name for it, but Garbage Beach is one of the last unspoiled beaches that I know of in Southern California, and one of the major reasons why the Sunset Cliffs are part of surf lore.
It defines us.
You get to Garbage Beach one of two ways: down the surf stairs and then across a fairly, shall we say, exciting section of slimy boulders and incoming waves to get to the beach;
or;
you take a knotted rope, Batman style, over the Sunset Cliffs right onto the sand. I’ve never tried the second one with a surfboard.
I’m insane. Not stupid. The beauty of the beach itself is hard to explain.
It has perfect, heavy white sand that glows in the evening sun. The water stays glassy most of the day, thanks to the heavy kelp beds outside and the way the wind rises up and over the Cliffs and surrounding hills. Garbage Beach holds glass longer than any spot along the California Coast.
And the water…dear God. You feel like you’re floating in the air. You can see Garibaldi giving you shy glances and lobster rummaging around in the eel grass beneath your feet.
I’m lying of course. You should all stay up north. This is all a complete and utter fabrication.
Dusty loves this spot. I can’t understand why. The wave itself is way above his ability. He is constantly after me and Bill to go with him and paddle out.
For me, I go there once in a great while, but it’s not a spot that I’m known at. It’s very often too crowded for my tastes. Garbage sits just below a private college that recruits students by bragging about the fact that it has several world class surf spots sitting just below the dorms.
It can be an absolute zoo.
On a good day, not perfection like we experienced on this particular day…just a decent day, all the breaks along this stretch; Subs, Abs, Garbage, North Garbage and Rock Slides even further north, are holding enough fiberglass and epoxy that you could walk that particular mile without getting your feet wet.
It’s nothing but attitudes, egos and ***:
every reason why I left Orange County.
When we drove up, nobody was sitting on the peak at Garbage. The Cliffs were lined with trucks and vans, but there were just a few people in the water out at North Garbage.
We grabbed our boards and ran down the stairs, across dry reef caused by a severely low tide, and finally into the water. The paddle out was more of a quarter mile
We wanted to get our waves in before the cliff-top infestation hit the water.
Dusty stopped right over the boil, but Bill and I kept moving out beyond to meet a dark line of water making its way through the kelp. We snapped around onto a perfect 10’ peak. Bill went left; I took the short-side right.
Dusty sat dumfounded, watching us from the inside and got pounded.
I really had no idea about the actual quality of this wave.
I’ve always surfed here on higher tides or smaller swells. I had no concept of its perfection. I’ve lived here long enough to know that every wave is much different than they look from the Cliffs, and this wave is so far out…well…I just didn’t know.
I felt the wave pick me up; looked down 15 steep feet as I set my hands to push myself up, and thought:
Oh, well…
I have no idea how I made that drop on a board that has the width and thickness of a city sidewalk, but there I was, tucked into the curl, marveling at the speed generated by the shouldered glass that still rose way above my head. I rode that wave almost a quarter mile, down to the inside reef, Boils, which was nearly dry.
By the time I made it back to the line up, we had been joined by Hud, a local legend who’s been surfing the Cliffs for, well; ever. For me, Hud is the perfect lyrical symbol for Ocean Beach.
Since the passing of Spaceman Bill, he has become our poster child.
Hud drives around town in a Ford truck that looks like he found it washed up on the beach. It’s just a tad larger than a Cushman cart and much more rust than reality. I’m not sure he would roll up the windows for safety if the truck had any. There’s no need to fear car theft. I’m confident that nobody else could coax this monument to the Age of Aquarius into lurch-cough-rolling, except Hud.
He arrives at surf checks to the sound of clattering glass. There are always several empty 40’s rolling around back in the rust with a 7’6” Native that looks like the nose has been broken off and patched; re-patched; broken off again and fixed finally with Elmer’s Glue.
I’m not sure it has a straight line on it.
He wears a camo fatigue hat in the water. And duct tapes his booties on.
As I’m scratching back outside, I watch Hud, somewhere well across the line of fully-vested in Social Security, take off on an outside bomb, carve the bottom heavy with speed, and rip that P.O.S. patch job off the lip hard enough to spray the waiting Infestation on the Cliffs.
That’s all it took. The Cliffs came alive with pointed fiberglass and stretching neoprene.
As I took off on my third outside bomb, I saw Mouse and Red had joined us in the line-up. Skip Frye even paddled a 13 foot yellow monstrosity into the line-up just as I stood up on my fourth wave and pushed it left. It was a perfect A-frame that set up overhead; hollow and fast.
In a move of pure hubris, I grabbed the outside rail of my 11’ plank, set my left shoulder back into the wave:
and watched Hud drop in about 8 feet in front of me. I sat down into oblivion.
As we paddled back out; without even looking at me:
Not like those mushballs you catch at the Pier, eh?
Bill gives me a look and I can see him laughing. He saw everything; heard the comment. Even Dusty is snickering. I’m sitting here among the local heroes and Skip Frye, a guy that straight-up legends idolize, and I am feeling out of place.
I’ve lived here since 1996. I’m active in the community. Hud knows me; knows where I surf; knows that I surf big waves. Hell, Hud is one of the only other guys out on a big day.
None of that matters. I’m exactly nobody. A tourist.
I didn’t go to Point Loma High; don’t surf this far south; and I don’t have a cool name. And that last one is the part that I am most envious of.
The cool name.
The homeless along the sea wall are the only ones who regularly call me Southside. These guys all call me, “that big guy with the shaved head.” It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue or conjure stories of great waves and heroic take offs like Skip, Mouse, Mongo, Red…Hud.
Nope. I’m just that big guy with the shaved head.
Sometimes people call me Butters. He’s a local Pro.
I’m not sure how people mistake us. Yes, we both have shaved heads and surf long boards, but Butters is nowhere near as big as I am. Not exactly a Mini Me; just not my size. And I’ve been told that I look much bigger in the water, if that is even possible.
Mongo calls my drop-ins, “Operation Dumbo Drop.”
The major difference between Butters and I though, is that he flat-out rips a long board.
I guess I should be grateful that I surf well enough for people to make that mistake. And Butters should be pissed that people think he’s that large.
I was still nursing wounds as I paddled back out after another long right.
Bill told me he was taking the next one in. The Infestation was hitting the water, en masse. It was time to go.
Bill grabbed a hollow left and carved his way back in, just as Hud made his way back out to the line up.
We sat out there waiting for the next set; Hud making small talk.
Dusty caught a wobbly left in.
I waited.
I wanted one more perfect wave; one more chance with Hud, who was sitting slightly deeper over the reef.
When the set came, we both had to scratch out even further to get in position. We snapped around at the same time, but he was inside for the left.
Hud windmilling his 7’6” wildly. I took two hard strokes towards shore; felt the ocean carry me; saw the crowd sitting well below me; saw emerald in motion and the burn of evening beyond;
saw every reason why I live here along the Cliffs;
looked Hud hard in the eyes; stood up on the Glide
and made my way home.
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