I paddled out near Idaho so as to keep him as far from the Beach Club as possible. There were two groms out and we took turns pulling back from close-outs.
My number eventually came up in the rotation and I redeemed it on a racy left. I stomped down, then quickly back up so as to give myself a 1% chance of making it. I managed to overdo it and pearl on a pump™.
I drifted down as it sucked where we were and saw a mirage of a right cylinder off, probably too fast for me to make it, but I decided it couldn't be much worse than here and so I paddled the thirty or so strokes to await its next of kin.
I split my time between waving at Chucho to keep him from going bonkers and watching the waves. The dog seemed to grasp it was in fact I who was waving by his posture and attention. He still barked some. I went in and we walked up the beach where a sick left would break every eight or so minutes.
Sure enough I lucked into a nice one and pumped a few times, then did an off-the-lip off the close-out section. I claimed it was I made eye contact for Chucho, hoping he would appreciate the maneuver. He looked ready for me to go in and so I did after another abridged adventure.
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I happened to look back and I've surfed every July 2nd of every year since the inception of this blog and not counting the massive sabbatical during which I lived in Colorado.