Wednesday, October 31, 2012
10.16.12 D St. w/ Missed-It-Mike
Forgive me dear readers, I have really been lagging. If you know me personally, and for your sake I hope you don't, you'll know that I am all about streaks and numbers. Usually I can quote how long it's been since my last soda, or the last time I made a barrel (September 21st, still counting it!).
These streakophile tendencies can be really annoying, but they do have some upside. Take, for example the ninety-two day streak during which I was able to stay firmly planted in monogamy starting in March 2009, a streak I probably will not be breaking until my plumbing (and wanton feelings) begins to fail me.
One day of not updating the blog, turns into two, then three and all of a sudden I have a streak going. Yes, it's strange, OCD, whatever you want to call it, but you can also blame it for my having tabulated EVERY session I've had for the last fourteen months.
Couple the above with an uptick in my workload as of late, and you have a veritable orgy of procrastination excuses.
On this day, I surfed lackluster D Street w/ none other than M-I-M. I don't remember much about the session, so I'll just go off the GoPro footy that I still had on my cam.
The waves were small and it was one of those days where it was tough to convince oneself to paddle out. I beat Mike to the viewpoint, and when he showed, I ran up to him yelling, "Don't even check, bro, just suit up and let's go". Since Mike has known me for over a decade, he knew to be suspicious. My initial yet fraudulent enthusiasm may have had an effect though, as he ended up joining me for a surf.
My first wave was a crab-grab. There were two reaches on this wave. The first, was my left hand reaching for my outside rail. The second was me thinking there was a barrel. The lip curled over just a wee bit.
On my second wave, I looked as I was popping up and realized there was no left. I stood up and dug in to my heelside rail a bit so as to go right, quickly realized there was even less of a right and tried to go left again. The lip cascaded oh so gently and I bailed, having nowhere to go.
My next wave was a left that had some promise. The pumping I did on the wave led to an eventual and disappointing fade. I had nothing to show for my ride except for my paddle back out.
My fourth wave was yet another left that was so quick the only thing I had to show for it was a pretty sick-looking sailor dive out the back. Mike was not a fan of it, but his hate has fueled me towards excellence in the past, so I welcomed his venom.
My last wave was one on which I had to pump gingerly so as not to blow it and have the wave pass me by. This fear turned out to be a non-issue because all the wave had for a finishing section was a weak spillover of its foam. I took the opportunity to bonk it weakly, rode away clean and did an exaggerated pump for the onlookers on the beach, of which I counted zero during my paddle-out.
Mike had to go in to go to work and I was disgusted by the conditions. We went in, knowing tomorrow's look couldn't be much worse.