There's been better. There always is. But I don't care about sixteen foot swells and six second rides. I just like the little stuff. Smoothing sailing on the short and slow. Trying to twinkle my toes. Over exaggerating my turns and trimming toward the top: High & Tight. I prefer to pilot my
Bing Pig past people. Cheating five. Jazzing some fucking glass. I'm not interested in anything else. Not right now. Which is why Sunday was so much fun. Just the right recipe. We had stayed up late the night before - charbroiled chicken, pineapple and peppers, plenty of pinot and quiet conversations at Angel's. It went well.
The next morning, Angel made Cuban coffee, apple cider waffles and peppered bacon. It was wonderful. And we didn't give two shits what time it was, or whether there were waves. By the time we pulled in, parked and paid, the wind had stopped working and the waves were waist high. My first few were fragile. It had been weeks since I'd surfed something smooth. After an hour, I managed to take a few trips to the tip. All sorts of unstable. Karissa even wandered her way out there and hung her first five. She was so stoked you could smell it from shore. Good thing Bricky was there to take a few photos ;)
Mac + Cheese.
First Five.
The Walking Dead.
Photos by
Bricky.
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