By Morgan Sliff
The brunt of the swell has passed, and for day 172 of my attempt to surf a year straight, the Hermosa pier was calling, with still sizeable bombs dropping on the on the beach at around 8 in the morning. The cloudy sky was lit up by the talent in the water, including Kris Hall, Tucker O’Shia, and Sarah Foley, all local rippers who were taming the incoming sets with their stylish maneuvers. The high tide was making the waves a bit slow, and I was having trouble paddling into the sets even on my 9’6. I found my surf family — Frank Paine, Jose Barahona, and Boris Vishnevsky — a little ways south of the pier and crowds, and I joined them in the struggle to catch the large, rolling breakers. The tide finally started dropping and after 30 minutes I finally caught my first ride, dropping almost vertically down what was might have been a 7-foot face. I barely made the section and paddled back out, heart beating fast, bewildered that I hadn’t gone over the falls and eaten shit, and adrenaline pounding through my veins.
The water felt clean and inviting today after the past few days of surfing in sludge. After about an hour and a few more interesting waves things slowed down, and breakfast burritos and some yummy pozole at the local watering hole (Brothers Burritos) were calling all of our names. I caught a wave in, grabbed my things and turned around just in time to see my surfboard shaper, sea sensei, and friend Jose Barahona take off on a huge set, flying down the line. Shortly after witnessing that, amazing pozole was eaten, good conversation was had, and smiles abounded — another day of surf completed, and another glorious morning spent with my sea and life coaches.
