The reports from last night were juicy. An overnight building swell and perfect offshore, with a medium tide to boot. The water was still a scrotum-wrinkling (I have pics to prove it) 56 degrees, so the crowds should be lighter than normal.
I called up Missed-It-Mike and he was down to surf. Given the combo nature of the swell and the medium-rising tide, D Street was the call.
I met him there at seven and goaded him into suiting up without checking it. On the way down, we saw a sick set break and our pace quickened. we somehow began talking about God. Mike is Catholic and I chide him for it constantly. I can't remember what I asked him, but he downplayed his faith in his response.
I told him to say, "I, Missed-It-Mike, hereby banish Jesus Christ from my heart". He wouldn't do it. I repeated it with my own name in his' place. I nervously snapped my neck up and around looking for the fateful bolt of lightning that was sure to be the end of me.
When it didn't arrive, I decided morosely that God had forsaken me. It was at that point that I exclaimed that I would allow Satan into my heart. This is how I imagine Mike viewed me, except prone, paddling on my surfboard:
After a lot of duckdiving and head-dipping into the brisk water, we perched. There was a guy on a log who was sitting deeper and inside of us. I saw him catch a left from the top and just kind of cruise on it. Another good-sized left came and the same result. The logger paddled back out and a juicy one was within his grasp, but he half-heartedly paddled for it and missed it. I let out a hearty, "WHHAAAAAAAAT!?!?" and received a grin from some guy between us who'd witnessed the 'exchange'.
Since Mike and I were still having no luck, I paddled for about three minutes until I was outside of him. The logger paddled back out and went way down the line, so much so that he wasn't a factor. Or so I thought...
When my first wave was heaving and close to elevating me, I was salivating. This was the first good wave I'd caught since early December. All of those mornings spent convincing to paddle out then sitting and shivering flashed through my mind ad I got lifted. I pumped once, then laid into a slash. After jumping though the wave, I realized I'd somehow snaked the longboarder. Eagle-eyed readers will see him in the background at the 6/7-second marks.
I sincerely apologized to him after realizing my mistake, but I'm sure he thought I was an asshole after this and the WHAAAAAAAAAT incident.
A minute later, according to the GoPro timestamps, I caught another wave on which I got barreled and pinched. BAH!
Mike caught a left and gave it two solid smacks. As he was paddling back out, I caught a left on which I didn't descend all the way and got barreled within a second-and-a-half of popping up. I set up a little too far away from the wall, but I don't think it was all that makeable (it IS D St, after all...).
Mike was in position for a left that the logger caught but couldn't make it around the section. This left developed into the best barrel I've EVER seen break at D St. Thick, bowly, wide and remarkably makeable -looking! Of course, it finale'd with a massive closeout, so a doggy-door exit would have been in order.
An older guy who looks like a Gentile version of Dos Equis' "Most Interesting Man in the World" was out and frothing, making catching waves difficult.
The tide rose and the waves suffered. I was able to catch a pretty sick left on which I pumped once, rose up to the lip, SUPERpumped and got stuck on a heaving ledge of a lip. I aborted towards the trough and midflight, all two inches of my manhood managed to free themselves from its between-two-thighs nest and flop up towards my stomach. I ended up landing right on it, not an easy task for such a small target, but luckily all I suffered through were nerves from the incident.
I am happy to report that it still works for the purposes it was designed!
Mike and I went in after about eighty minutes of being out there, cold and having to get on with our days...