He’s going to Malibu, and he’s going to get such
good waves on his fabulous turquoise midlength with no leash. No
one will even know that he has ever surfed it with a leash at all.
It’ll totally be a secret.
Surfline Man needs a roadtrip.
It’s not like Cardiff is bad or anything. In fact, he’s pretty
stoked he moved here, on the whole. There’s such good waves all the
time. He can’t believe how much he’s surfing now, and he’s like,
totally a regular at the Pannikin.
It’s all working out so perfect.
But he needs to change it up. It’s not good for his surfing to
always hit the same waves. He should try different spots. It’s the
only way he’ll get better. And he is so determined to get better at
surfing.
Why even do it if he’s not going to be good at it. That perfect
cutback, it’s totally coming to him, he can feel it.
Reclining on the couch, Surfline Man scrolls through Surfline
looking at forecasts. So many beautiful charts and graphs, it’s so
much fun to look at them all. Where to go, that’s the question.
Trestles is definitely out, due to the whole ex-girlfriend
thing.
Surfline Man scrolls some more.
There’s a nice pulse of south on the forecast. Surfline Man
thinks hard. He hasn’t been to Malibu lately. In fact, he has never
surfed his beautiful turquoise midlength at Malibu.
Yes, that’s exactly it. He simply has to go to Malibu with his
midlength. Where better place to learn the perfect cutback than
Malibu. It was meant to be.
Joel Tudor says that Malibu is the best summer surf spot in the
world, and Surfline Man knows better to argue. He might get punched
in the face. If he’s honest, Surfline Man is pretty sure he’ll get
punched in the face eventually anyway, but he’s not about to speed
up the process.
Heading to the garage, Surfline Man pulls his midlength out of
the rack and gazes at it lovingly. You can’t even tell he dropped
it on the tail, at least that’s what he tells himself. He carefully
removes the leash and unties the string. He heard that only losers
surf with leashes now, and he’s not about to show up to Malibu with
a leash dragging behind him. Everyone would immediately brand him
kook, for sure.
Daydreaming of Malibu’s perfect rights, Surfline Man slides his
now-leashless mid into his Sprinter. Fresh avocados for a mid-day
snack. Bottled water. Rinse kit. Fresh HydroFlask in the latest
colorway for summer. Surfline Man recently bought a new changing
poncho, and he is super excited to use it for the first time. It
would be so embarrassing to have his bare ass just like hanging out
there on the PCH.
Get in the van, we’re going to Malibu.
Surfline Man wakes up before dawn, pours freshly made coffee
into his fave Yeti mug, and hits the road. Surfline Man is so
excited. He’s going to Malibu, and he’s going to get such good
waves on his fabulous turquoise midlength with no leash. No one
will even know that he has ever surfed it with a leash at all.
It’ll totally be a secret.
Surfline Man cruises through the long swooping interchange over
the 405 and merges on to the 10, that weird narrow old freeway that
cuts through Santa Monica. Hurtling west, he reaches the tunnel
that magically transports him to the coast. It’s always a surprise
that tunnel, the way the shimmering ocean and wide sand beach so
suddenly appear.
In these pre-dawn hours, there’s not much traffic, and Surfline
Man sails up the coast. A line of campervans sits parked along the
shoulder, and a cyclist headbanging along the highway swings out
into the lane to avoid them. Surfline Man slows to make space.
He’s going to Malibu, and he’s in such a good mood right
now.
Rolling past Topanga, Surfline Man sees the Boardriders shop.
With its giant wave mural on the wall and the succulents growing
out front, it sends out an almost irresistible siren call to
Surfline Man. He resists, barely. Malibu. He has to get to Malibu.
But gazing upon the deep blues of the Boardriders mural, he can’t
help but think about just how fucking cool surfing is.
Yah. Surfing is so cool, man.
Now he’s in Malibu.
A pair of girls in cute as fuck spring suits dart across the
highway, longboards tucked under their arms. Surfline Man slows to
avoid them and to enjoy the view. Parking is competitive and the
tiny lot at First Point filled long before dawn. Surfline Man
really wants a spot up front, but he is resigned to the likelihood
of a long walk.
Then he sees it. A parking spot! It’s on the other side of the
highway, but a small detail like is not going to stop him. Surfline
Man pilots his Sprinter into position and after a quick look-see,
swings a tight u-turn, or at least, the tightest u-turn he can
manage in the van, which is about as tight as his cutback.
At least he’s not terrible at parallel parking, and Surfline Man
soon has his Sprinter wedged into a space, right there at First
Point Malibu.
He made it! Surfline Man can’t even believe it, he’s going to
surf Malibu right now.
From his prime parking spot, he can see waves sashaying down the
point. A slight south wind folds wrinkles into their faces. Black
dots march through the lineup, and cluster around the peak. It’s
crowded, of course. When has Malibu ever not been crowded? Not
lately, that’s for sure.
Stoke undiminished, Surfline Man slides into his Long John.
Thanks to all the surf he’s scored, his arms are looking so toned.
He looks like a guy who surfs, Surfline Man thinks, as he checks
his tousled, sun-kissed hair in the Sprinter’s side mirror.
Surfline Man saunters down the splintering wood steps to the
parking lot. Someone is banging a drum, and the scent of sativa
wafts lightly in the breeze.
Through the gap in the wall, Surfline Man pauses to take it all
in. The beach is packed with people even this early in the morning,
and brightly colored umbrellas pop. Longboards lounge against the
wall, same as it ever was.
History man, there’s so much of it. Standing there on the beach,
Surfline Man can totally feel it.
Now to get a wave. Up close, the crowd does not look smaller.
Undaunted, Surfline Man paddles his turquoise midlength into the
lineup. An uncontrolled chaos reigns. Surfline Man sits on his
board and watches for a few minutes to get the vibe.
A wave comes. Five guys paddle and three guys make it. Four guys
and a girl drop in from the shoulder. One kicks out. One falls. The
surfer in front slides through a stylish turn, arms up, hips
swiveling. He walks the nose, as behind him, three others grapple
for space. Two loose boards float unclaimed on the inside. Another
wave comes, and the whole thing starts all over again.
Up close, it’s much more intimidating than Surfline Man
expected. But he came all this way, so he’d better at least try to
get a wave. Trying seems better than nothing, anyway. He positions
as best he can near the peak, which isn’t very near at all. He
hates to be that guy, you know the one, the guy who always drops in
from the shoulder. Necessity is making him rethink his
principles.
Moving down the point a bit, Surfline Man looks for a likely
spot. Not too close to anyone else, not too close to the peak.
Surfline Man tries to channel his warrior side, which he’s not sure
he actually has, but it sounds good.
He can get a wave at Swamis, so why not here?
Sure, brah, you are totally getting a wave here, says his inner
voice. Shut up, inner voice. This is totally not the time for inner
voices.
Maybe this one? Nah. Or this one. Surfline Man watches as the
lead surfer falls just after he passes by. Damn, so the worst
timing. Surfline Man looks at the next one, already six guys on it.
Shit. Next one, bro’s nose-riding, can’t drop in on that.
Okay, a lull. Surfline Man is feeling tired, but he’s not about
to give up.
Then, it comes. It’s not a set wave, but Surfline Man is past
the point of being super choosey. He’ll take anything now.
This time, there’s two guys and a girl up and riding. Suddenly,
the guys collide. Surfline Man can’t believe his eyes. They fell!
Surfline Man notices that the girl is cute, but there’s no time
think about that right now. He must catch this wave!
Surfline Man scraps in from the shoulder, not quite in position,
but fortunately, his beautiful turquoise midlength looks after him,
and corrects for his mistakes. He glides into the wave, and looks
down the line as though in a fever dream. He can’t believe he is
actually standing on a wave at Malibu! For a moment, he forgets to
surf.
A few tentative pumps and suddenly, Surfline Man is speeding
down the line. Surfline Man doesn’t know what flying feels like,
but maybe it’s something like this. He tries really hard not to
flap his arms too much or do anything else super kooky and awkward.
It’s so hard.
Surfline Man forgets all about his quest for the perfect cutback
and the cute girl he met at the Seaside Market and the ding in the
tail of his beautiful turquoise midlength and the leash he left in
his garage to ensure he looks cool.
He forgets about everything except this moment right now,
sliding down the line at Malibu, the pier straight in front of him,
Cher watching from her house up on the hill. Malibu, fuck it’s
cool.
The wave dwindles to nothing, and Surfline Man kicks out. He’s
at the bottom of the point, and he still can’t quite believe it. He
got a wave at fucking Malibu! Surfline Man resists the urge to fist
pump. It’s a struggle, but he’s determined to play it cool.
Surfline Man’s pretty sure there’s a dumb shit-eating grin on his
face, and he decides that he doesn’t even care.
Surfline Man walks up the beach. He stops to look behind him,
taking in the perfect waves, and the crowd of black dots, the blue
sky overhead.
Yeah, man, this is living, he thinks, as he walks past the wall,
midlength tucked under his perfectly toned arm.
Surfing is so cool, and Surfline Man can’t wait to do it
again.
