Friday Session

Somehow, with all of the planning, tide chart studying, surf report reading, and anticipating the SW swell, I ended up at Bay Street, a break I've surfed maybe three or four times in the short time I've been surfing. CYT and I were gullible enough to believe the surf reports. So, thinking the swell would have Sunset and all points north firing, we headed up PCH, only to find Lake Sunset, Lake Topanga, etc. Since she was trying to help a friend learn how to surf, we had to go to a break that was beginner-friendly. I suggested Bay Street. I'm not particularly enamored of that place. It's more crowded than my home break and it also has parking issues. However, after the fun I had yesterday, I'm thinking good thoughts about Bay Street. Even with all of the people in the water, most of whom were beginners attending what I think were three (three!!) surf camps, I enjoyed myself. The Tyler caught anything I asked it to catch. And since I am now working hard on turning from the rear of the board and walking to the nose, I was kind of busy out there. I never had a moment when I thought I would run over one of the newbies. I easily maneuvered the log around people. The only problem I had with the crowd was trying to pull off cheater fives. I made a couple of them, but lacked the space to head back to the tail and turn. So I'd walk back as far as possible before ending the ride and hanging onto the board. I do think that the time at Malibu forced me to improve my board handling skills.

Here's a question: how on earth could anyone confuse me for a surf instructor? See, CYT and I were on the shore with her friend, who had a soft top board. CYT was trying to show the friend where to position herself for paddling and also the mechanics of popping up. I was just standing there. Finally, it was time to get in. I put on my ever so fetching stocking cap and was just about to pick up my board. This man walks up and asks whether he can rent a board. I told him I had no idea, since I was there to surf and had no affiliation with the surf camps/schools on the beach. He thanked me, walked away, turned around, and yelled, "Well, you look like a surf instructor!" I. Look like a surf instructor. Me. The black woman. The black woman in the stocking cap. Look like a surf instructor. Me. The black woman in the stocking cap who's standing passively as her friend shows someone the mechanics of surfing. (I would think CYT was the one looking like a surf instructor.) I thanked him for the compliment. Then I went surfing.

Note to self: the sand is hot! It's not cool. It's not warm. It's burn-the-soles-off-the-bottoms-of-your-feet hot. See, I always walk barefoot out to the shore. That's not a good idea anymore. Once we got out of the water and started across the sand toward the parking lot, I noticed that the guy in front of me kept stopping. I was seconds from asking him if he was okay, when I understood why he could walk no further. Eeeyaaaaaaaaaah! The next thing I knew, he and I were doing the same dance—walk a few yards, then stop and try not to scream as you feel your feet melting. Repeat 10 times. Had I not been carrying the Tyler, I would have sprinted through that sand. Man, it was agony. My flip flops are now my new best friends.