Loc: Santa Cruz
Crew: Al
Time: ?
Conditions: Cold . . . really cold. Choppy and clean, water protected by cliffs. Lots of seals and sea otters. 3-5 feet.
Pre Blog:
I’m the kid that grew up in a broken home, the kid that used to get picked-on, get his ass kicked, and the kid that never played sports and had low self esteem. So . . . it’s a wonder how I’ve made so many friends over the years. Despite never being “the popular guy” I’ve managed to leave my mark wherever I go, and one reason for going on this trip is that I’m a man of my word. Before this winter break started I told Lauren that I’d take her back up north for some quality time. I told my cousin Hayden in Sacramento, who I haven’t seen in over three years, that I’d be visiting him. I also told my roommate from Iraq, Al, that I’d catch some surf with him up north too. With school starting on the twenty-third, I have a small window to make these things happen. So I guess being witty, funny, good-looking, rich, and successful aren’t all the things that matter when it comes to friendships. I hate flakes and do my best not to be a flake myself. I’m just an average guy sticking to my word, and that seems to go a long way with most people.
The Road to San Jo:
It’s Thursday, and I just got confirmation from Lauren that she can’t get out of work this weekend. This has been a serious dent in our relationship as of late. Work has been so busy for her that there are only those couple hours before going to sleep and before she leaves for work when we get to spend time. As much as I wish she could join, I’m making this trip alone.
Two boards, clothes, towels, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and I’m off. The first stop is at Main Street Liquor here in El Segundo. I grab a bag of chips and a giant Rockstar that I hope will keep me awake for the drive. Before truly starting my journey I drop off some holiday remnants at my sisters’ houses. My first stop is in Inglewood to drop off a Tupperware container and then to Sherman Oaks to drop off a Forever Lazy that got shipped late. From there I’m balls-strong, mashing my way up north.
I do horrible on road trips, dozing off at the wheel and suffering from severe road hypnosis. Especially at night, shadows become food for the tired imagination, mixed with headlights from passing vehicles, lanes and boundaries begin to blur. But no, not this time. I made sure to get a solid seven hours of sleep. I take a look back and realize I forgot my hooded FCS towel. No biggie. And then I realize that I forgot something that is very pertinent to this weekend’s surfing . . . my fucking wetsuit. “NOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I’m yelling at myself, going apeshit. I look at the clock and then I think about the distance I’ve traveled. “There’s no way, I can’t go back.” Finally, the anger subsides. Fuck it . . . either Al has an extra wetsuit or I’m buying that 4/3 that I’ve always wanted.
The drive on the 5N until the 152W to Gilroy is so damn boring. There’s the dust bowl, the fields, the occasional over pass, and the assholes that make it a mission to pass you just to get one car-length ahead, but I’m going strong. My Pandora’s randomizing my playlists, and Mitch Hedburg has me laughing and wondering, “Is Smokey the Frog real?”
Al calls and tells me to let him know when I’m on the 152. He also has an extra wetsuit, but it might be a little big. I try my best to make it there without stopping, but my bladder’s not cooperating, so I stop at Panoche to take a piss. While there I grab a McDouble and a McChicken Sandwich. Do I sit down and eat it? Hell no. I’m fumbling with the wrapper and taking my first bite as I’m entering the onramp; time is everything.
Life is good until I hit the 101N. My final stretch is only about forty-miles, but still I find myself looking at my navi every minute, watching the miles tick away slowly; it feels like forever. As I exit the freeway and cruise through Sunnyvale only one thought comes to mind: This is way too far from the beach for me. It’s the first time I’ve driven in a city that has carpool lanes. This place is townie. There are small stores and shops separated by long stretches of trees and greenery. If the ghetto’s nearby then I’m definitely not in it. The streets are clean, there’s no graffiti, and I don’t know what to make of the Mexican, Indian, and Asian businesses that dot the corner plazas.
I make it to Al’s minutes before he returns from school. We go through the pleasantries, talking our usual shit as he makes fun at my neck and face tan. The last time I saw this guy was in August; I only realize that now. His fiancé Shawnti is inside making sandwiches for a party she has to go to. Once she leaves, Al makes us some sandwiches and grabs us a couple beers. “Matt, we’re gonna stop by Shawnti’s parents house and grab you an air mattress,” he says.
“Nah, man. I’m good. I brought my sleeping bag and pillow; I’ll just crash on your couch.”
He insists and insists and insists; there’s no getting out of this. We stop at his future in-laws for supplies, and then he takes me cruising through Mountain View. It reminds me of downtown Fullerton but much smaller. The first bar we stop in has nothing but old people, making us the hottest guys in the bar. I haven’t been out in ages. “Dude, let’s go somewhere else,” I say. The next stop is an Irish pub called Mollie’s. The crowd here is a little younger but ninety-nine percent sausage. I start to lead us down the strip, but he stops to let me know that these are our only options. It’s not that I want or need to look at ass, but after being in the military I’ve had COUNTLESS/ENDLESS nights and days of pure, uncut sausage, everything from waking, eating, showering, you name it. This is the civilian world, gawd dammit, and we’re veterans; we’ve earned the right to throw some clams in the mix as well.
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| Al doesn't like Thai food |
Okay, so when I say that Al and I are the hottest guys in the bar, I’m not saying that to sound conceited. What I’m implying is that Al and me are just “all right,” so what does that say about the rest of the atmosphere? Within a couple drinks we catch-up on the rest of our lives. He offers to drive to Campbell which is more “happening,” but we’re committed to saving ourselves for the surf. “What time are we getting up?” I ask.
“Probably six-thirty or seven.”
“Really, I’m surprised you’re not on it at first light.”
Al raises his brow and tilts his head down as he takes a sip. “Bro . . . if you go at first light you’ll be surfing alone for like two hours.” I don’t quite get it. “It’s sharky,” he says.
The Santa Cruz Cruise:
Al insisted that I sleep under a mountain of blankets. “It gets cold here,” he said. He said he couldn’t believe I was here. It’s obvious he doesn’t get many visitors, and he doesn’t have any friends that surf, so he is going above and beyond as far as hospitality is concerned.
I wake to him brewing our coffee. I’m worried about bowel- movement-interference (BMI) with the morning sesh, so I eat a banana and take a crap before we leave. Thick frost billows out with each breath; it is freezing.
Al says it’s about forty-five minutes to Santa Cruz via the 17. While us city dwellers have buildings and traffic associated with our dawn patrols, Al has nature. The 17 seems so desolate. We are surrounded by trees the whole way, and around certain bends we come upon clearings where there’s nothing but valleys of lush, untouched vegetation. The hills turn orange in the morning sun, and then we drive downhill where it turns deep and dark all over again.
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| They say the body has natural mechanisms to keep warm. |
Al’s Spots:
We stop off and check out a spot that called 26th (ironically). The surf doesn’t look that big today. It’s a wide open beach with about six guys sharing one right-hand peak. There’s no wind, and the conditions are clean, but Al insists that we head up towards Pleasure Point.
When we park and get out, Al has a massive diarrhea attack, throws me the keys, and makes a run for the porta-potty. Pleasure point looks flat and packed with longboarders, but I don’t realize that this is just a lull. When Al comes back the sets start coming in. We are kind of far, being at the lookout, but the waves are anywhere from four-to five feet; it reminds me of Malibu but with a bigger surf zone. Clean right-handers peel through, and there’s a top, middle, and bottom of the wave where surfers can try to pick-off rides.
Al points out Jack O’Neill’s house which is to our left. It’s a different surf scene here. The residential area sits right on the spot with a couple cafes and a small lot to park at. Surfers come and go, all dressed head to toe in neoprene protection.
I forget the names of the places we stop at next, but I believe one is called “The Hook.” Al says it’s too crowded here, and he makes the call to go to Four Mile.
Four Mile:
We leave the town and end up on the highway again. There is nothing but fields and hills, and Four-Mile only looks obvious by a small group of cars parked on the side of the road. “It’s a long walk,” says Al. “We should just change and go for it.” I debate on taking my GoPro, as I don’t want to look like a kook at a new spot, but it doesn’t matter anyway because I forgot to put the SIM card in it. It doesn’t bother me much, as I’ll be able to just concentrate on the surf and not worry about pictures.
It’s do-or-die time with Al’s wetsuit. He eclipses me in size, and I worry that his 4/3 will fit me like a kid putting on his daddy’s sports coat. Surprisingly, it fits well.
We walk a long trail through a harvested cabbage field which goes downhill and leads to the sand. There’s a huge cliff to our right, and the inside is shallow with rocks and boulders. Al points out giant rock formations to our left and says, “See that over there? On the other side of that is three mile.” My surf anxiety starts to kick-in when I see about ten surfers tightly compacted into one spot where the point starts to break. Al nonchalantly puts on his booties. “You don’t have any?”
“No, I’ve never owned a pair.” Thoughts of how my brother ingrained it in me to never wear them arise. “They take away the feeling of the board,” he said.
“We’re just gonna paddle where those guys are and see if we can catch a couple.”
Al’s not worried. If it takes about an hour for him to reach the surf, I’m sure he doesn’t think about the crowd; it’s a given. Once my feet touch the water I say, “Hey, it’s not that bad!” Once my hands enter the water I say, “Oh fuck!” I try to ignore how icy my hands feel because I have to duckdive the white wash coming in. Learning my lessons in Bali, I do shallow duckdives because I don’t know where the rocks are. Once I reemerge from the wave my face and ears are ringing cold. We were paddling but are now standing in waist deep water on top of some boulders. When we make it out to the lineup Al sits right in the middle of the pack. I don’t know if the sun is weaker up here, but everyone’s face looks pale. No one shares the black-face badge of winter surfing; maybe it’s just a SoCal thing. A sea otter lies on his back as he munches away on something, enveloped by vines of kelp. I’ve never seen a sea otter in the water before. Seals also swim around us; they’re everywhere.
I think it was in Surfer Magazine where I read an article on etiquette, and one of the rules that stuck with me was: Never insert yourself into a lineup. So basically I like to sit on the outside, see what the waves are doing, and after the guys sitting there catch some waves I start to work my way in. The surf is best at the middle of the wave, but I paddle straight to the top away from everyone else. I catch a couple rides that don’t connect, but I’m determined to wait for the wave that will do it. Al looks at me and points down, indicating that that’s where I need to be. I nod and smile, stubbornly sticking to my gamble. I catch a long ride which is pumpy whitewash, and from there I paddle to join Al. I don’t do well around crowds, but I smile and try to give a mellow energy. Al catches a wave and gets some nice spray out the back. The rides are long, so it takes a while for him to return.
I get a couple curious looks since I’m new. Some of the guys are talking to each other, for them a familiar crowd and atmosphere. I sit further outside and to the right of them where no one wants to be.
Good Gambles:
Have you ever felt that you had a keen sense of when waves were coming? When I first started surfing, I thought I had some kind of gift to predict waves. It wasn’t until later that I found out it was just an illusion. However, there are those few days when your senses are on point, and for that one session you do possess a gift of making the right calls.
The locals know this spot. No one wants to sit where I am. I must be in no man’s land, but when the outside sets come I’m in the best position to catch them. Everyone races for them, but when I’m coming down the line they have to back off. I’m more concerned about connecting the sections than turning, but I’m guaranteed a turn or two on each wave. These waves are different. I should be getting pitched, but I’m making the drops after being held-up on the lip. Al on the other hand hasn’t surfed for two weeks. I see him get sucked over the falls and wipeout a couple times. I paddle up to him and say, “Was that you eating shit?” He smiles as if to say, “Motherfucker,” but he knows I’m joking with him.
I’m careful not to be a hog, so I sit towards the inside after each ride to make sure the locals get some before I get more, but the instant I paddle to my spot I catch the next outside set. I have a small breakthrough. The initial drop has a lot of speed, so I make my way to the shoulder at the end of the wave, shift my weight on the tail, and do a long cutback where I wrap-around and redirect myself on the foam. It’s not a figure-eight, but it feels good.
I start to get the feeling that I might be annoying some people. The tight group starts to spread out, and more people start to sit closer to me.
A small seal pup pops up in front of my board. I’m just short of shitting my pants from the surprise. I’ve been close to seals before, but this is different. He’s just staring at me, the little bastard. “Aaaaaaah, what do you want!?” I say. He’s so close that I can make out the dark spots on his dark gray skin. His eyes also have a dark, grayish film over them. He’s little but not scared at all. He dives, swims behind me, and starts playing in the kelp.
Wave of the Day:
Again, I’m sitting a little outside of the pack but this time with a couple guys close by. I see what looks like a lump in the distance, way out there. As my brother taught me, try to drift to the outside inconspicuously before the set comes, and I do. I start a slow paddle straight ahead, and no one else is catching on. I paddle over a small wave to see a big wave approaching out the back. By the time the crowd kicks-it in gear I’m already aiming for the shoulder. I start to pivot towards the beach and drop in perfectly. This wave is just under six feet. I nearly run over Al, passing him going down as he’s paddling up and over. The crowd is on the shoulder in position to drop-in, but I’m already racing down the line. Again, this isn’t really a wave for turns. It’s fast, and I’m just pumping to get towards the end. I pass a couple people on the way to shore; it feels good.
Back at the lineup Al’s talking shit. “Motherfucker. I saw you paddle out, and I was thinking, ‘Why the hell is this motherfucker going out there.’ And then I look and see a fucking wave. Me and everyone else are just looking at you, thinking, this fucking guy doesn’t even live here!”
I barely do this well at new spots, especially without local knowledge. It’s a nice little stripe to earn on this trip. We’re talking shit all the way back to the car, but it’s all love. One thing about military humor is that it’s very blunt. He let me have it the last time we surfed HB together over a year ago, all day he said I sucked. Today he says he was “off,” but he’s glad I did good.
Still Cruising:
He shows me his post surf ritual which is grabbing a couple donuts at this spot called Ferrell’s. The lady behind the counter has giant D-cups, we weren’t ready for that. As we’re leaving, five UC Santa Cruz chicks enter. This is definitely a college town. From there he takes me to Steamer Lane for a look, and the surf is not only cleaner but at least a foot bigger. Al says that the locals like to surf the point, which surprises me because the waves are breaking bigger towards the inside. There are even surfers on the bottom of the wave getting rides. Al says it’s not crowded because of the 49ers game.
We grab some Mexican food in downtown. The waitress is very talkative and takes interest in where we’re from. From here I make the conclusion that women up north are much nicer than the ones in LA and Orange County.
At his house, I take about an hour long nap and make a one-hundred-twenty-three mile drive north to Sacramento. I’m still surprised at my energy; I’m not tired. I’m not sure what cities I’m passing through, but I take a toll bridge through what I believe is Oakland.
Hayden lives in the hood, straight up . . . it’s bad. It’s only my second time in Sacramento. I say hi to his wife Michelle, the kids, meet his extended family and everyone else that so happens to be in his home. He’s had some very rough times in recent years, but he’s doing his best to be a father and a husband. We go to a new BJ’s Restaurant that opened in Arden, my treat. Seeing him brings back memories of high school and our small town of Napili; it always does. We discuss everything we possibly can since these opportunities are so few.
It’s about 2330 when I drop him off; it’s a little emotional. We promise to somehow make these visits more often and not to let so much time elapse between them.
I’m still charging on the freeway back to Sunnyvale, and I make it to Al’s by 0130. He tells me that he went to the bar to meet up with Shawnti’s cousin, and that there were drunk 49ers fans everywhere. He also says that his cousin’s girlfriends were making out and smashing their titties against each other. It’s a good thing I had other obligations.
It’s been a hell of a day.
