PACIFICA ROAD TRIP Part II, SAT-SUN 26-27OCT2013

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1500-1600

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, sunny, onshore, choppy, walled

     I’ve never taken PCH all the way down the coast before. My friend Al had warned me to make sure I take a piss and shit in Monterey because after that it’s no man’s land. I only know that I’ve looked at the route on Google Maps and on MapQuest before. All PCH is to me, up here in NorCal, is a squiggly line near the coast that takes much longer than taking the 5 South back to L.A. But Bri is down for adventure, and without any obligations waiting for me back home, why rush just to sit in my living room again? Everything we see today will be a new experience, so why not just go with it.

     We head up a two-lane road towards a tunnel, but traffic is immediately halted. Emergency vehicles rush back and forth in the opposite way. It’s a little past 1400, exactly a day later from when we left L.A. the day before, and this journey back mimics the one when we left—traffic. Cars in front of us do three-point turns, heading back in the other direction, but Bri and I have patience. Dead or alive, we’re taking the 1.

     About a half hour later, we start to move again. We venture through this enormous tunnel, a miracle that’s been bored out through a mountain it seems. There are even emergency lanes inside of it, and it’s well lit. “Let’s hold our breaths,” says Bri. We do. We try. Bri runs out of air before I do, but I still hold it until we’re almost out, but I fail. The test makes me think of people who have died from running out of air, dying from shipwrecks in the middle of the dark ocean somewhere. I guess I would have died too.

     Upon emerging on the other side, the highway is adorned with trees and hills that tower over us. Everything is scenic, picture worthy. When we make it to the coastline, a surf break appears to our right. Just next to the highway, only five guys are out surfing. The surf is much cleaner than this morning. The afternoon sun shines over the water, making silver, blinding triangles in the surf. The water is smooth, and long, two-to-three foot lines peel in towards the highway. It’s so inviting. I want to just pull over and suit up again, but we haven’t even covered any distance yet. I have the long drive around Big Sur in mind, and a surf session now will only make me too weary later on, but Bri and I take a mental note of this spot, sure that we’ll be here again.

     The rest of the drive is a struggle. We want to pull over and take pictures of everything, but we can’t. How can we even gauge if what we’re seeing now is the best that the coastline has to offer? It seems that every bend has a view much more magnificent than the one before.

     There are pumpkin patches on the way to Santa Cruz. I keep an eye out for Four Mile and Three Mile, the Santa Cruz surf spots that Al had taken me to two years ago. I imagine that they’re further ahead, but then PCH swings inland and turns into Mission Street. Now we’re in downtown Santa Cruz.

     When the trip turns inland, we’re back in freeway traffic, an uninteresting part of the journey, but when the highway swings towards the coast again the scenery returns.

     I should stop and piss in Monterey, but I can’t stop driving. Every turn is a mystery, hidden by fog, blessed by the sun, and then immersed in fog again. We stop at a scenic lookout that’s so high that clouds billow over our heads from the mountains, pouring out into the sea. The air is cold. I stand in my boardshorts with my penis shrunken down to a stack of dimes. The clouds are white and gray while the blue coastline can be seen far below in the distance. Other cars pull onto the dirt road with speed, having been caught by surprise as well. 

     Hours into the trip with the sun going down, we stop at the side of the road where the clouds are at eye level. The setting sun turns everything bright orange. There’s a steep drop below where a rock sticks out of the sea. Aside from the occasional rush of a vehicle, the nature surrounding us is silent. “Listen,” says Bri. Down below in the ocean, the only thing we can hear is the water splashing against the huge rock below. 

    The drive remains scenic, but once the sun goes down, the drive gets sketchy. The van in front of us is driving slowly, and there are a couple cars behind us, tailgating, eager to get around us. The twist and turns get the better of me. Road hypnosis sets in. There’s no cell signal or 3G. If anyone has a major breakdown out here he is fucked.

     Hours later, we start passing small towns with signs of civilization. When Bri and I reach Morro Bay, we pull over at the state beach, and I take a piss. It’s dark and cold out. The stars are much brighter here. As soon as I tie up my boardshorts, a spotlight from a cop car beams on us. I wave. I wonder if we’re breaking any rules, but it’s only 1900. The park closes at 2100. The cop drives away. Bri and I stay a little longer and then go back in the car to continue the journey.

     Just as I start my car, the spotlight returns, blinding me through my back window and rear view mirror. “Aww fuck,” I say. “Here it comes.” I pull my wallet out and put it on the dash. I stick my hand out the window and spread my fingers, letting this cop know that I’m harmless and don’t want to have to lie on the dirt face down. I hear footsteps approach. “This is bullshit,” says Bri.

     The cop is walking towards us with his flashlight at my face. “Donny Duckbutter?” says the cop.

     “What the fuck?” I look closer, and the cop is a guy I had been stationed in Iraq with. “Aww shit!” I say, opening the door and giving the guy a hug.

     “I ran your plates,” he says. “I was like, Donny Duckbutter? There can’t be too many Donny Duckbutters out there.”

     I introduce him to Bri, tell him that he scared the shit out of me, and then we catch up on what we’ve been up to since 2010. “My girlfriend and I were gonna just camp out in our car,” I say.

     “Well,” he says. “It’s illegal to sleep in your car, but . . . if you do it here, I won’t do anything.” I tell him we’re planning to push it further south anyway, so we say our goodbyes and hit the road again.

     We pass San Luis Obispo, and then Bri suggests that we stop at Splash Café in Pismo Beach for the best clam chowder in the world. We exit and park on the street. I worry about the surfboard on the roof, but we still leave our car regardless.

     There’s a lot of nightlife out here. It’s 2030, there are a lot of college kids on the street, and the café itself is packed. Bri orders while I let my road hypnosis settle. It’s just hard to transfer from driving for hours to sitting down in a crowded restaurant.

     So the clam chowder is good. It’s served in a sour dough bread bowl, but I fail to eat all of the bread. Leaving the café, we see a party bus from one of the colleges. White girls pour out of it wearing short shorts. Their ass cheeks hang out. Mexican cooks and bus boys pour out onto the street for closer looks. Good for them. There should be plenty of drunken poon tang for them tonight!

     But I’m tired as shit. So is Bri. We push it all the way to Santa Barbara. Bri suggests that we park in this parking lot that’s right next to a business establishment. It’s well lit, not like the dark shady cul de sac that I had wanted to park at earlier. Other cars park next to us while we shift our belongings in the back, making our bedding for the night. We throw the longboard inside too just in case. It’s hard enough sleeping in this thing by myself. It’s doable, but it’s always a shitty sleep when I pull it off.

     Bri is out instantly. The windows start to fog from our body heat. It’s obvious that we’re squatting in here, and I’m preoccupied at the thought of security making its rounds. My sleep is broken, tossing and turning. I dream that a security guard is tapping on our window, telling us that we can’t sleep here. I wake up, and the sound is just someone’s car doors’ slamming. Bri tosses and turns too.

Day 3

     At 0600 I wake up, go outside, and brush my teeth. The sky is turning to a dark blue, lightening up slowly. Bri gets up, and then we reorganize our vehicle for the rest of the journey. No hotel necessary. We’ve survived the night.

     Now we’re driving through Santa Barbara, Bri’s old community college town. It’s been years since I’ve been here. She directs me to Spudnuts where we have coffee, bagel sandwiches, and some free donuts that come with the meal. The place is already packed with church goers, picking up their refreshments for service. The sun is out, brilliant and gold, but when Bri takes me to her favorite beach, it’s overcast with fog again. We both take shits at the public restrooms and then cruise the coastline.

     She points out the community college. It sits right by the sand, overlooking the ocean. The pier here is nice. It’s early with only a few commuters out. Plenty of people jog along the street. The water is glassy without a sign of surf. We stop, take a pic, and trudge on.

 

     We’re open to surf, so we stop and see Rincon for the first time in our lives. Other cars are here too, but the swell is small. We stop at different spots along the break. We see the potential.

     Sad to say, the feeling of the unexplored gives way. I know the rest of the route. I stop at a secret spot that I had only brought Klaude to. The surf is small here too. Oxnard, County Line, and Leo Carillo, we stop and check the surf. Small. But it’s beautiful to be out, taking our time, delaying our arrival back home. 

    There are surfers at Zuma. It’s glassy but small. We take the coastline through Malibu and stop off to walk some scenic trails. So much in our backyard that we didn’t know about.

     And so our trip ends. The 1 leads us back to Lincoln Boulevard. It’s 1400, exactly two days since we had left El Segundo. We find ourselves at El Porto, looking at the choppy, walled surf. It’s small and looks like shit. Onshore with a small crowd, the session is easy to pass up. “We have to end it right,” says Bri. “It’s only right that we paddle out to end this trip on the right note.”

     She puts on her bone-dry Roxy wetsuit that she hasn’t used yet on this trip. I shiver while I put on mine, the same one from Lindamar yesterday morning.

     I don’t need to describe the surf session. Most of us know what choppy Porto is like. The session sucked, but who gives a shit. It culminated this whole road trip. We saw Francis, the only friends from SoCal that had the time to make the trip. We drove home one the 1, Big Sur being a huge highlight. I love Bri because she’s right on board with me, down for adventure, down to camp out in the car. And here we are back home, two days later, safe and in one piece.

     After our session we go home and slowly unload our gear into the garage: boards, wetsuits, leashes, sleeping bags, and all. We do the groceries and pick up Thai Food for dinner. It’s nice being back home.

     We shower off two days of grime. We haven’t showered since we had left. We climb into bed, exhausted, calling it a night around 2000.

     Thank you, Francis, for everything. Without your presence we wouldn’t have made this trip. Bri and I will be back to do it trip again.