Endless Session, Day 300: Triumph in.. Solitude?

Photo by PortoSurfer on Day 300

On a milestone day, being 300 of 366 days of surf, I set out for some triumph in solitude, bound for the layered chop of wind-blown El Porto.

Last summer I got into a big reggae craze, blasting nothing but Rebelution, Marley, SOJA, and Collie Buddz on southern road trips, and those same playlists have trickled into 2016 and ring through my sandy Subaru on surf cruises (and in my half-deaf waterlogged ears now as I type). I found myself playing one song in particular, Sensimilla by Collie Buddz, every time I pulled past the Chevron station into the Porto lot, so now its a silly tradition — it bumps from my speakers as I roll down the hill – kind of like my pre-surf amp groove for the sometimes menacing Porto beachbreak.

It was a gloomy day, and the regular commotion of the popular meter-ridden lot was replaced with scant spaces and stillness in all but the bustly air. Collie blasting through the windows, I pulled in with no expectations of familiar face sightings…. but who was I kidding, this was the South Bay. Around these parts you cant walk, run, or hide from anything.

I pulled in at the beginning of the lot near 45th st and happened upon Michael Overstreet, Porto regular, who had just gotten out and was checking the cam at Malibu for hopes of a better score. Jeff Theilman, tattoo artist bounced by to say hi and as I was following his footsteps down to the sand I randomly passed by my dear friend Paul Roustan of www.bumpsetsurf.com, sitting on a strand bench above the lot gazing the windy sets rolling. Lucio was on the beach, and a few other familiar faces were in the water. I guess it was a party after all.

Photo by PortoSurfer on Day 300

Paul, artist behind the lens (and professionally in other endeavors) and completely spellbound in surf photography dreamland, grabbed his clicker and hung on the beach to snap spray-throwers and logging acrobats while Jeff educated me on warm-up stretches for my always sore shoulders. I followed Jeff into the uncrowded pacific and we split ways, him going for the lefts on the other side of the rip that pulled us into the lineup, and me dodging north to try and score the potential rights coming in. My outcome was fruitless, and I reconvened with him at his break, where there was more energy in the water. He wanted the lefts, and I frothed for the rights, and we started splitting inconsistent peaks, but both going the opposite way, laughing about it as we paddled back out. I had two glorious rights, and he ended with a satisfying left before he exited the water. Surfing the playful left of Cardon Resort in Mexico for a week and a half certainly got me more comfortable on my backside, but there’s something about facing the wave – looking at it, being able to touch it and shut out land behind you – that is so very special.

The party ended, but I couldn’t help myself for a second afternoon sesh that was truly solo. Wind not letting up, my new board cut through the chop and flowed powerfully and effortlessly down faces next to the Hermosa Pier, and I must have made it to my 20th wave before I remembered everything I was forgetting to do back on land. I could hear the cracks and pops in my over-paddled shoulders, but I didn’t feel the pain until I got out of the water and struggled to walk up the sand. Salt really has this healing power, if only I could grow some gills and fins, I’d never be sore or feel sick again.