Almost a dry hair day in Malibu

Today I was supposed to drive to Ventura. I had checked the Surfline forecast before leaving my hotel and for Malibu it said “Flat-Fair”. How can conditions be fair if they are flat? On the cam, it didn’t look completely flat, and it was crowded. I had been scared of trying Malibu but figured that if it was flat, even I could handle it.

So I decided to drive to Ventura via Highway 1 so I could check it out.

Before I even left one of the Paskowitzes called me back, returning the message I’d left on the surf camp answering machine, and in about a 20-minute conversation tried to figure out if he could help where everyone else had failed. “I have a 100% success rate,” he boasted, just like every other instructor I’ve brought down to 99.8%. Well, I couldn’t figure out if he could help or not, but he was willing to give me a lesson and I was willing to try. We set it up for Monday.

After that I nearly decided to go south instead of north, but decided I had time to do both.

On the way from LA I decided to try to find the Sunset break I’d been told to try, but not realizing there are two Sunsets, ended up on Sunset Avenue in Venice instead of Sunset Boulevard in Santa Monica. The Saturday afternoon Venice boardwalk fleamarket/sideshow was worth seeing, and it reminded me a lot of New York City before they banished all the homeless people. Apparently they all ended up here, except they now clutch their earthly possessions in cheap wheeled luggage instead of shopping carts. I ended up buying a $10 watercolor of a surfer woman from a man who, I was told, had been living under a tree for twelve years.

I didn’t stay long on the boardwalk because I had left the dog in the car. This was the first time I’d ever left her alone like that for any period of time. God bless doggie senility.

After that, I found Sunset Blvd. But the sign said only six miles to Malibu, and I was determined to see it.

What a spot, what a wave! People hanging out as if they’d always been on this beach and always would be. When I saw all the dogs in the parking lot, I knew I was going to like this spot.

The waves were the long perfect peelers I’ve heard about and have been in search of ever since I started surfing, but had never seen. Until now. Here was what I’d come to California for. And they were small, and looked easy to surf! Yes, it was crowded, but I’ve seen just as many people out in Rockaway in the summertime. There were about 30 to 40 black dots in the water, all heading for the peak in what actually looked like a line, I mean the kind of line where everyone waits their turn in orderly fashion. It couldn’t be that, though, could it?

I tried to ask an Asian guy on the beach, but like all guys in their 20s, he couldn’t conceive of the fact that an obviously middle aged woman could be a surfer. So he ended up telling me that I should go get a video if I wanted to learn to surf!

Now I felt like I could leave the dog in the car for a couple hours. As I was suiting up I felt gloriously confident. This was it, the mecca of meccas, the wave that would finally make me a real surfer! Even if I didn’t dare reach for the peak, I could easily take some of the little insiders as I saw people doing.

I’d not even expected a chance to surf Malibu, but here I was, already grinning, anticipating the triumphant phone calls home: “Guess where I am? I rode the waves at Malibu!”, as well as the T shirt I would happily buy myself later, proudly proclaiming “I surfed Malibu!” I was about to earn the right to such a shirt.

I paddled out competently, encouraged by the sight of dolphins in the lineup, cutting my foot only a little bit on the unforeseen rocks. I had thought Malibu was only for experts, but I could see there were other beginner surfers here. Just like Rockaway, it has a retard section. I would not be the worst surfer at Malibu!

Maybe not....but close. The waves that had looked so easy to catch from shore were nearly impossible to find in the water. I was way over on the shoulder, yet figuring I could still catch a wave because they were so long. That wasn’t how it worked, though. Every time I was in position to paddle for a wave, someone else was on it and would pass in front of me, someone who’d started his ride so far down the line I hadn’t even seen him take off. So he appeared to come out of nowhere, was going very fast, and had no intention of stopping, falling, or getting out of the way for me. There may be retards at Malibu, but there are also surfers of stellar ability (including, I was told, Allan somebody who used to be famous in the 80s). So every time I almost had a wave---and I did---I had to pull back to avoid a collision with Joe Used-to-be-a-Famous-Pro-Surfer. Here, you couldn’t count on anyone blowing a takeoff or falling off a wave.

As a result, I had dry hair at the end of my first hour at Malibu. I hadn’t even fallen off my board. Eventually, sometime during my second hour, I caught one small wave, which led to a long ride, but not long enough for me to figure out how to get to my feet. My Malibu wave count remained at one until I got too hungry to stay in any longer.

I let my dog out and she mixed vaguely with the West Coast dogs and tried to bite the golden retriever. Then the idiot followed me into the shower where she drenched herself in cold water and emerged shivering pitifully. But not before she relieved herself on the sands of Mecca. I figured that now I could go search the local gift shops for the only T shirt I deserved: “My dog crapped on Malibu Beach”.