I’m not one to hold grudges against a friend, but Vilano, you are not a friend — and I formally and disrespectfully refuse to accept your silent apology.
I made plans with Max Mertz, Brent Lamprecht, Luke Vasiliades and Daniel (not the one with the white vans) to find the best spot for Wednesday morning. Everyone started hyping about it since the weekend, so we were all talking about our options. Brent had been blindly worshipping Vilano lately, so he’s hell bent on a barrel extravaganza. I’ve heard good things about the North Jetty from past swells, and the pier is a shit show. I’d surfed the poles every day leading up to Wednesday, so I was over that spot.
When your imagination holds up a big ass barrel in your mind, it’s hard to disagree that Vilano had some serious potential for this particular morning.
I picked Max up around 6:something. He made us a few bagels, but on the last half, he ran out of cream cheese. This bagel info is completely irrelevant. I just wanted those of you out there with cream cheese issues to know you’re not alone, and that dry, toasted bagels suck.
I called Brent, who had Luke and Daniel with him, and he said he would meet us down there.
We pulled up around 7:something and it was just mush crap — side shore winds, weak conditions, and the beach had eroded. There’s a five-foot drop off instead of Vilano’s usual steep, yet gradual slope into the Atlantic.
I called Brent, again.
“It blows. I’m heading to the North Jetty like I said we should do yesterday.”
“Okay, I’m right at the light so I’m turning around. See you at the jetty,” he said.
I assumed it was a race. So, I got nice and frustrated driving behind all the law-abiding citizens on A1A.
I called Brent, again.
“I’m not gunna make the ferry so I’m going around.”
“Okay. I’m at my house. I had to grab a different board, and now Luke and Daniel are s**tting,” he said.
“Together? Never mind, I’ll see you there.”
Eventually around 8:something, we got to Huguenot, and it was super clean offshore nugs. I was happy. That drive sucked, but the waves made up for it.
I had jeans on, so I had to change. Max had baggies on already, so he just ran out. I scanned the lineup, and thought, “Why the hell does that look like Brent on a right?” A Brent-like silhouette slashed a right section and pulled out. It was Brent. But Brent was at his house.
I scurried around to get my baggies on. I ran out to the water, splashed my way next the Brent and I saw him grinning. Luke was a few yards away just cracking up.
“Bro? I thought you would be still waiting on the ferry. How did you beat us?”
“When you called me, and told me Vilano sucked, we were at Chick Fil A in South Jax. When I told you I was at my house, I was on the ferry.”
So, Max and I basically did a Northeast Florida marathon wave check from 6 to 8 a.m. for Brent, Luke and Daniel, while they laughed their Chick-Fil-A-filled guts to the jetty.
We still had a blast. I didn’t take any pictures because I just surfed the whole time. If you want to find a lesson in this story, here it is: Buy more cream cheese, and don’t ever, ever, ever, listen to Brent Lambrect.