M-I-M showed up at 545 to experience the trek that has become my morning commute. He did remarkably well with his bare feet as he barely complained.
About a tenth of the way to the beach, we felt the stoke-soothing push of a south wind. This would kill the texture and greatly lessen our chances for a fun time.
We pushed on and decided to surf when we saw it, not wanting to brave the condescending glare of motorists eyeing our dry hair on the way back of what would have been an aborted mission.
Almost all of the waves closed out right away. I was in position for one that looked like it had a line. Being the gracious host, I decided to bequeath it to my guest; a decision that would come back to haunt me. He took it and hooked a sick-looking backside turn in a critical section. He uncharacteristically emoted.
The long and short of it is I caught zero waves where I did anything but drop in and kick my board out. Mike did get another one where he did a nice lateral snap on a right. Our teeth began to chatter after about an hour and a quarter, so we bailed, taking Mission back up to my pad.