The forecasts' tales for this week made my loins droop with woe. I was going to surf today's mediocrity no matter what. I initiated the suit-up sequence in the relative warmth of my living room.
Because of the massive tide, I had a feeling MD's and NoTePads would be washed out with fat rollers. I opted to take the 101 and swing south so as to maximize the angle of the swell with the countering angle of the coastline.
I saw a sick left break at Seaside that the lucky rider was able to ride all the way through to the inside connection in the shorebreak. I pulled over off the 101 JUST as I entered Solana Beach, finished suiting up, and got out thar.
On the walk to the break, I reflected on all of the magical sessions I've had here. The bummer is there aren't any. I've never had success at Seaside, despite the seemingly rippable walls that, when firing, remind me of Uppers on an ok day. The strongest memory I have of Seaside is paddling out ten years ago with my buddy Andrés, a busboy at the restaurant formerly known as Jay's Gourmet. I caught a massive right that freight-trained on without me and got so hammered, my left heel was left hanging out of its warm cocoon of a booty.
Perhaps today my relationship with this fickle tease would change.
When I rounded the corner and had a view of the waves, I accelerated and thought "top to bottom, top to bottom" thinking the hittable lips would encourage me not to ride out so far into the shoulder.
After a pretty long, ten minutes-plus, paddle-out, I perched inside of the pack of five. Within five minutes, I caught my first wave. It was an overhead (!) right and the drop was a dooz. I angled up and then slammed my weight forward. I brought it about halfway around into a roundhouse cutty, but the lip was gone. Oh well, at least I got my first one out of the way.
There were two groms out, and one was emphatically telling his bro about how he slid his fins out on a layback snap and made it. SICK, if true!
Fifteen minutes passed, the bulk of which I spent paddling back and forth with the very shifty waves. The guys outside of me kept missing some, but by the time they got to me, they were closing out or still not steep enough to catch.
I saw a steep left that one of the groms couldn't catch. I put my head down and stroked hard for it, salivating over its steepness. I popped up keeping the vast majority of my weight towards the front, so the rocker would make a smooth transition into the possible air drop. Seaside decided to pull the football away from me, and flattened out so I popped up and immediately pearled. Damn it!
I paddled back out and sat with the pack, and twenty minutes later I was rewarded with a similar wave, though a little bigger. I sat back on my tail a little more and immediately faded right to counteract its probable marshmallowing. I read the wave correctly, but when I swooped into my bottom turn, I just didn't have enough momentum to stay with it. Too bad, because the inside section looked good from the back.
I decided I'd had enough and bailed shortly thereafter.