Patrolling the Dawn

So worth it.

So worth it.

Let’s get one thing straight: I am not a morning person.

I never have been and never will be. You know that classical music song by Rossini? Of course ya do! Well, as beautiful as the song is, it will never be taken seriously by myself.

<Insert savvy pun about men my age here>

I CONFESS: I would just as soon as throw a brick through a window hoping to nail the rising sun that mocks my eyes than to be pried out of the comfort of my warm cozy bed.

The only sound that miraculously pulls me from my slumber: THIS.

Well hello there, feet.

Well hello there, feet.

Bleary eyed and cantankerous, my wetsuit-ed body pulls itself down the cold street by my bare feet, my mind counting my blessings in bittersweet fashion.

Is there some bump in the water? Don’t know until I get there, but I sure hope so!

Any tiny piece of gravel under my feet turns me into a moping baby in whine mode, the sand’s chilly temperature imitates grainy snow piling between my toes. The crisp air coupled with the first touch of the semi-cool Pacific finally wake my senses and, yes, I can do this.

With the lineup count at two, I slide into whatever choice glassy peak I want, sans hoots, aggro-ness and other alpha ape-like behaviors.

Alarms, cold neoprene, annoying gravel and a semi-lucid morning walk –worth every last frigid second.

As for the rest of the day, well…

Ok, I'm awake now.

Ok, I’m awake now.

Tales of a Back Paddling Player

My new 'home' break.

My new ‘home’ break.

Last night my precious evening sessions commenced in front of my newly established home in San Clemente.  As soon as I parked my car, with one eye on the sunset, I pulled on my wetsuit, grabbed my board and booked it down the street as fast as my legs could carry me.

 My first evening session–at home.
That’s right…I walked down the street to surf last night and couldn’t be more thankful.
 For once I can literally call a spot “my home break” and mean almost all aspects of it…except…it doesn’t really feel like “home” just yet.
While bobbing around the lineup waiting for a wave, the break seemed unusually crowded for a Monday evening.
Combine the time change, northwest swell and people who live in the general area who had the same idea as me while twiddling their thumbs at 4:59 p.m. and you must get:
The Locals, I thought.
And it should be noted these locals have definitely been here for a while, as they knew every ebb and flow of this shifty beach break barrel and rode every wave like a seasoned pro.
I CONFESS…while paddling out, I lost my board and kooked out in front of the lineup.
Yay, score: me: 0 locals: 1
IMG_1484
Praying that no one saw that blunder, I made it out to a lineup of 10 guys.
Aggro guys.
Strangers with whom I have yet to be acquainted.
Well, I thought, I’m a friendly gal, surely these guys will welcome—
Ah shit, one just back paddled me.
Again, maybe they’re just warming up to—
Damnit $%#@er dropped in on me!
<Repeat this cycle four more times before I paddled to a different peak>
Ugh.
Nevermind, I thought as I peered at the setting sun shining over the worn-out butterflies painted on my board.
Hmmm…on my next board, I think I will have one of my artist friends paint a flaming skull or…a pirate with a knife it his mouth…dolphins with mohawks…or maybe an overly busty mermaid?
Can you spot the fin in this picture?

Can you spot the fin in this picture?

Overheard in the Lineup: “Dude, how’s that chick…was Katie her name?”
“Oh yea, yea, she’s good, I guess. Hey! Did I tell you about Maria?! We were at this party and this other chick bee-lines it for me! I was like woa…then she said ‘How come you never call me?’ I’m like ‘Uhhh…blahblahblah'”
I tried to not listen, but one can’t help to overhear the conversations these guys were putting out in the otherwise silent and peaceful evening. And I couldn’t help but grimace at the thought of two poor girls getting played by some guy sporting a Captain America wetsuit who constantly back-paddled me.
Maybe I will keep those butterflies on my board. In fact maybe my next board should be all pink with some form of glitter and unicorns with which I can scout out the back paddling player and take his waves, too. Regardless if I make the waves, he will remember my board like I remember his conversations: loud and annoying. :)
Despite conversations and aggressive testosterone behavior, I know I belong out there just as much as Capt. America and his clan.
For now I’ve found myself in the middle of a testosterone pit …a minority ..a newcomer.
…Is there a term for the guy version of a “sewing circle?”

Stay Classy, U.S. Open

 

The surf industry has its ups and downs, peaks and valleys…and of course, where would an extreme sport be without an extreme competition followed by extreme behavior?

While we can probe into the psychological aspects of an adrenaline junkie and how it relates to the surf culture’s constant need to usher in self-proclaimed machismo behavior, I don’t think I will waste your time.

Nope, I’m just going to bitch.

The 2013 U.S. Open of Surfing brought to the lime light two amazingly talented athletes naming Brazilian Alejo Muniz as the men’s champ and (my favorited) Hawaiian Carissa Moore as the women’s champ (Yay, Carissa!). However, among the week-long HB “dustbowl,” a recipe for a prime time donkey show ensued: Combine alcohol with an already dehydrated sun scorched local and non-local crowd, near-naked bods, free live music -Trust me! It was SO hard to avoid the Modest Mouse show-and mix equal parts of the over-sexed sport of surfing, top with some testosterone and cops and, my friends, you’ve got yourself a shameless shit show.

Gross.

Gross.

Over-turning port-a-potties? Gross.

Fights? Expected.

Throwing a stop sign into a store and then looting the store? Wrong. Lame. Stupid.

On Aug. 31 1986, the OP Pro broke out with a rash of fires, vandalism and riots.

On Aug. 31 1986, the OP Pro broke out with a rash of fires, vandalism and riots.

I hope you enjoy the drunk tank as much as I enjoyed my Monday morning YouTube catch-up watching the exact reason why sponsors are so easily scared away from our sport.

Thanks for throwing our surf culture back to the 80’s.

Stay classy, U.S. Open.

*It should be noted: a correction was made to the title of this entry. While it originally stated ‘Stay Classy, Huntington Beach,’ it was my own conclusion the more accurate origin of the craziness was the U.S. Open.*

Beach Creepers Beware

Girls just wanna have fun..without being creeped.

Girls just wanna have fun..without being creeped.

Beach season will soon be alive and well! Bikinis and boardshorts of all shapes, sizes and colors will grace our beaches like newly designed couture on a New York runway.

As much as I love a cute colorful bikini, sometimes I sketch about the attention it attracts:

The Creeper.

You know him…or her, even. They blatantly stare at you, jaw agape, while you change and check the surf. Even though you pull your wetsuit on as fast as you can, they slowly inch their way towards you, eyes not moving from your bod. They’re usually just hanging out by a trash can or a lifeguard tower, a place where you have to cross paths on your way to the water. Though you don’t make eye contact, their stare burns your skull as you calmly make your way to the safety of the water’s edge. For your sake, let’s just hope it’s high tide.

Wonka likes the surfers.

Wonka likes the surfers.

One evening before my usual surf sesh, some creeper stood directly in front of my peripheral, smiled and stared at me as if I was a juicy rib eye while I put on my wetsuit.

He stood there long enough to create an uncomfortable silence and I knew what was coming next.

“You come here often?” he said.

I rolled my eyes and breathed a heavy sigh while I zipped up my suit.

I could feel my face burn and my fists clenched as he continued on with his ‘overly-stoned surfer hippy’ facade.

“Nope,” I curtly stated.

<This is the only time I justify a lie.>

While his pathetic attempts to make conversation turned to more personal matters, I assumed an aloof disposition coupled with short answers and minimal eye contact in hopes to drive him away. Didn’t work. He was from L.A. Go figure.  Hmm, what to say, what to do…

I used to teach preschool and it was the most fun job I’ve ever had. However, establishing boundaries among the little ones is essential, unless you want to go crazy.  Like children, it seems the male-dominated surf culture needs a few boundaries.

Some guys think because women wear bikinis and/or revealing wetsuits, it gives them the ‘okay’ to make a pass or two…or three. Wetsuits, bikinis and the like are merely a preference in expressing how proud we are of our bodies we work so hard for..or simply because we want to minimize tan lines. Respect that.
However, I will say some of us wearing scantily clad items definitely ask for the unwanted attention.
Regardless of what we choose to wear in the agua, here are a few guidelines that either gender might consider when some hottie passes through their radar:

1.) STOP STARING!!
Didn’t your mamma ever tell you it’s rude?!  Just like pointing, in most cultures, it is rude to stare at someone while they are trying to change in their wetsuit…or walk down the beach…or paddle out..or duck dive a wave. If you think they’re hot stuff, perhaps leave it at that. If you stand a chance, decide your angle and make sure it’s AFTER their attire is on. Be respectful and avert your eyes. If you cross my path and stare while I struggle to get my wetsuit on, my glare will cut you like a katana blade.

Unless it's your good friends, this is the time to NOT take a picture. Dave gets ready to surf Hazards in San Louis Obispo, Calif.

Unless it’s your good friends, this is NOT the time to take a picture. Dave gets ready to surf Hazards in San Louis Obispo, Calif.

2.) Watch your mouth.
Really? You’re dropping one-liners? Dude, I left one-liners at the bar…three years ago…and even then, they were dumb. Their coolness factor died in middle school…circa 1998. How old are you, again?

3.) The wax on your deck is not for writing numbers on.
On more than one occasion, some guy thought it would be cute to write my number down in his wax via fingernail. Can it not wait ‘til I get to the beach? Most of the time, I don’t like giving my number out on the beach, much less in the water. I ain’t thinking about yo’ punk ass whilst I be throwin’ spray!

 

4.) Just because I’m being nice does not mean I want to share waves with you!
For every wave you decided to ‘share’ with me, you lose 30 minutes of my time. Several local guys will be dropping in on you shortly.

5.) Quit talking balls to me.
You’re so badass because you surfed Uluwatu, huh? How big was it, again? 14 feet or 4? The scar on your face ain’t from the reef, sweetie. I can tell a a bitch slap when I see one.  A very wise man once told me: “A musician never tells you how good he is, he shows ya how good he is.” Can we translate that into surfing? Hmm? Humbleness is waaaaay hotter.

6.) Unless you’re Dave or Chav, I don’t like being sprayed in the face by your cut-back.
Good for you, you can throw buckets! Now, can you aim it at the guy who was dishing out the one-liners?

At Lower Trestles, anything is possible.

At Lower Trestles, anything is possible.

 

 

7.) Gettin’ aggro does not make you cool.
While I’ll admit there is a time and place to be aggressive, unless you’re at Lowers and 10 people decide to ditch their boards while you paddle out, chillax. Yelling at groms does not get you brownie points, either…unless those groms have dirtier potty mouths than a 60-year old sailor…which is possible…at Lowers.

8.) Yes, I have been to the gun show…
…repeatedly, thanks to you and 20 other dudes.

9.) No, I don’t want you to shape me a board.
I just met you. Besides, I have a shaper…and he’s the jealous type.

10.) RESPECT
Not just me, but also yourself. …when you can’t respect yourself, who else will you respect?

 

Now go forth, former creepers!! Quickly become un-creepified before someone knocks your front teeth in!

We’ll all know you really didn’t hit the reef.

Reefs hurt more than bitch slaps.

Reefs trump bitch slaps.