If the swell was continuing to fill in overnight, it would make sense to paddle out, even with the weekend timing and the contest in town.
I headed down, walking this time along Mission (not Wisconsin as I usually do) with the intention of checking Pier first.
Pier was ho-hum, but I saw promise southward. Unfortunately, the meager head count I'd been spoiled with was no longer. Set waves were in the chest-shoulder range, but they were being contested.
I continued farther south, about a hundred paces of the bulk of heads, and paddled out.
My first two waves were lefts that shut down almost immediately, one more quickly than the other.
I heard some weird noises and looked to the north. It was an older guy hooting/vibing his buddy pretty obnoxiously. I harkened back to the days when I did the same to my surf bros, telling them to go on almost everything then vociferously showing my disgust when they missed it by shouting, "WWHHAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!".
I doubt my surf bros miss that side of me.
I caught a right, snapped, then faded off the back of the weak shoulder.
A bigger left came and I dropped in. It closed out and I kicked out.
The biggest wave of my day was a left and I dropped in. I went up to snap, but was too late. I jumped off my board as the lip was coming down.
Upon surfacing, I realized my board was toast. Salvage value-wise, I was interested in both pieces. The tail had fins I wanted to keep, while the nose had the GoPro.
I paddled awkwardly on about half a board, collected the other piece, and headed home.
A 60-year-old man was hotdogging on his skateboard and said, "What is it, Pipeline out there?". He walked with me to Wisconsin and told me about his glory days as one of the original downhill skateboarding racers. He had a Frankenstein stitch on his right shoulder and I asked if that was from skating and he gave me the gory details of that bail.