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| On a whim and without plans, our three surf heroes head out on a mission, hoping to score a campsite. |
The Jalama Sessions
Loc: Cracks
Crew: Gary & Bri
Time: 0700-1500
Conditions: 3-5 FT+, ON FIRE.
Pre Blog:
Jalama. . . Gary had sent me the invite a little over a week ago, talking about a surf trip to a place from the 8th thru the 10th. Central Cal. “Check it out,” he said, sending me links for me to read up on and do my own research, but I didn’t. I took a mere glance at the website. On it, a scenic picture of scattered beach-break peaks with mountains in the background, all glazed with a golden sunset.
The most research I did was checking the forecast. Surfline had the forecast at “flat” and “none,” while Magicseaweed had 1-2 star ratings with howling onshore winds in the double digits.
Regardless, I said yes to the invite. I had to. Why not check out a new spot, even if the surf would be shit. Also, it’s a privilege to receive an invite from a veterano like Gary. I couldn’t leave him hanging. I committed to the trip not realizing how it would change my perspective on every California session thereafter.
0200:
With our gear already preloaded in Gary’s Suburban, Bri and I only have our personal backpacks with clothes and toiletries. After sleeping less than four hours, I still feel pretty fresh for this trip. Start time will be at 0245. I get a text from Gary. He’ll be here in 15 min. I look at Bri and tell her that it looks like we’ll be leaving earlier.
The WHC don’t fuck around when it comes to dawn patrols and early wakeups. Gary shows up in the El Segundo darkness at 0230. We load up and start our trek north.
My cousin Sherwin once told me how he believed that falling asleep in the passenger seat is a bad omen, so even though Gary says that we can sleep if we want to, Bri and I stay up to keep the conversation flowing. On PCH, we pass Santa Monica and Zuma, but they’re covered in a sheet of darkness. I can only imagine what the waves are doing.
Passing Malibu around 0300, there are cars parked, surfboards strapped to their roofs. I didn’t realize how dedicated the Malibu crowd could be. I mean, spending the night here to catch a first-light session? Gnarly.
Oxnard is when I start to get tired. Definitely around Santa Barbara is when it’s getting hard to keep my eyes open. Bri points out where she used to live when she had attended SBCC. Right after, she drifts off into a quiet slumber.
Heading into Jalama, we take an ominous turn off of the 1 onto a pitch black road. I’m tired, so I can only imagine how tired Gary is. We’ve just about exhausted every conversation possible. I’ve heard the tales about his prior trips here: The time that he, Rick, and Russ had come here in the winter to witness row upon row of head-high white-wash lines rolling in with howling onshore winds; the last trip here when Russ was a teenager and the sinful shenanigans that he had engaged in; and how Gary’s buddy had to paddle four miles back to camp to avoid the ranchers waiting on shore for him.
“You want me to drive?” I ask Gary.
“No, I’m okay.”
But I can tell that Gary’s barely hanging on. As the road snakes deeper towards Jalama, we encounter a deep fog bank, no cars in front or behind us. To our left and right are barbed wire fences with mailboxes and dirt roads spread miles apart. We can barely see a few feet in front of us. Gary’s hunched up against the steering wheel, forehead damn near touching the windshield. My fingernails clutch the dash. I’m right there with him.
I don’t realize that we’re making the last bend towards our destination until I see the dotted lights from the campgrounds. It looks like a hidden civilization in the middle of nowhere. The sky over the hills shows its initial dark-blue hues, giving a first glimpse of the landscape around us. I look at my phone. No service.
We stop at the entrance. A sign is posted, saying that visitors cannot enter until 0600. Gary hasn’t been here in a while, so he’s unsure on how the current procedures work, but we need to make sure that we’re one of the first ones in line to secure a campsite. We park at the entrance, but a car pulls up behind us. We go inside.
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| Bri, dressed for the early morning occasion. |
Stepping out of the Suburban is like stepping into a blast chiller. Yes, it’s summer, but the air here is significantly colder than SoCal. With each minute, the sky gets a tad brighter. Offshore winds push at our backs as we stand on the sand, overlooking the surf. Before us, mooshy four-foot peaks break and peel, scattered everywhere, up and down the beach. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. Bri huddles in front of me, shielding herself from the wind. It’s cold. The water looks even colder. There’s surf, but I’m in no rush to paddle out.
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| If this were the South Bay, these waves wouldn't be unridden. |
0600:
No one has arrived to man the shack at the entrance. Yet, we don’t want to leave because we need to get a campsite. We read the bulletin board where there’s a diagram of camp spots we can claim if they’re vacant, but when we check, all of them are occupied or reserved.
“You guys can paddle out,” says Gary, but we don’t want to leave him behind.
The first dawn patrollers emerge from their tents, powerwalking down the beach and disappearing from view. Other surfers walk off, armed with their boards, backpacks, and chairs. A sense of urgency fills the air. Gary fills out an Iron Ranger Day-pass card and pays the ten bucks. We grab our day equipment and prepare for the long trek, too.
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| We tried to compare if this walk is longer than Old Mans to Lowers. This walk definitely feels longer. |
0700:
Walking south along the beach, there are different breaks to our right. A tall cliff looms over us to our left. In the distance, a wooden cross stands tall overlooking the ocean. If the atmosphere was desolate and barren an hour ago, there are now wetsuits dotted all along the beach until the very last bend at the end.
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| I love camping down south, but there's something about Jalama that makes you feel more isolated. |
“That’s Tarantulas,” says Gary. He talks about the different breaks that are even further south, but they have restricted access.
The first break we pass has waves breaking on the inside, short fast hollow tubes. A bunch of groms own the peak, pulling in. Some make it out. Most do not. Gary says hi to one of the kids coming out of the water. “He works for C.I. I bought one of my boards from him,” says Gary.
Our gear weighs us down, but the walk is scenic. Further out to sea is a field of kelp beds. Big blobs of tar litter the beach, accompanied by smooth polished sandstones. Gary picks one up and sends it flying horizontally over the water like a mini Frisbee.
We find a flat stone against the cliff, large enough to place our packs on. We suit up and set up our chairs. There are about thirty surfers out, but there are consistent scattered peaks, easily three-to-four feet. Now I’m anxious. Here goes another Lowers-like crowd, I’m thinking. I always have anxiety at new breaks. Who are the locals? Is it aggro here? Is everyone ripping?
I haven’t felt water this cold since winter. Suddenly, I’m glad that I’m wearing a 4/3. Bri and Gary sit with the main peak. I sit further south by myself, hoping I can catch something wide.
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| Scattered peaks all day long. Beyond buffet status. Enough for everyone. I only wish that all of my surf buddies could have been here, too. |
The Y Spot:
First off, the surf is supposed to be blown out or flat according to the forecast. Yet, the wind is light and the water is glassy. Aside from the 3-4 FT waves, sets start rolling in at an easy five feet. Bri and Gary draw first blood before I do.
Gary paddles back out and gives me a nod and wave, motioning for me to come over. I choose not to. Finally, some waves swing wide. Rights. But they are fast, I either go straight or pull out before they closeout. A couple other guys sit wide with me, too. They scratch but can’t get into the waves.
Bri’s the only girl in the lineup. While all the men pass up on the inside waves, Bri is able to catch them on her NSP. Wave after wave, they turn their heads to see if she gets them. With her delayed pop up, her head emerges from behind the wave, going down the line. She’s scoring, and that’s when I realize that this crowd is much mellower than I had thought.
By my third wave, I’m getting more comfortable. I’m racing down the line on the rights, setting myself up for at least one solid backhand hack. The rides are short, but I’m getting the best consecutive backhand turns that I’ve had in a while. While everyone else is at the main peak, I hold this spot down all to myself. Landmarking my spot, there’s a formation of bushes in the face of the cliff shaped like a Y. I’m just to the south of it.
Dude on Fire:
The forecasts had said this, and the forecasts had said that, but the forecasts were full of shit. I can feel the light onshore wind, but it’s not affecting the quality of the wave at all. Even with the tide topping out around 0800, waves are still coming in even more consistently. Surfers who had dawn patrolled are returning to camp, either done for the day or to refuel. The crowd is now half the size that it was earlier.
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| Gary, who has much more patience than I, took this photo of an unridden set during intermission. |
Moving over to the main peak, I’m able to catch some lefts. I can’t help but feel that I’m on the right board. The surf is too big for my Motorboat Too, while my Mini Driver has good entry volume that’s getting me into waves with ease and enough overall volume to move throughout the lineup with minimum effort.
I think about how I can describe this wave. It’s breaking like Trestles, the rides not as long, but quality equally matched. It’s not hollow, but the waves stand up enough with rippable faces. Over and over again, I take off late, taking advantage of the forgiving shape.
I catch back-to-back-to-back waves, dialing in my forehand cutbacks. With so much speed on the drops, the first section on every wave has the most “umph” to it, opening each ride with balls-out ripping maneuvers. Even though the second and third turns tend to moosh out a little, the set waves allow three turns. Even the best days I had caught at North Churches didn’t give me this many consistent lefts.
Gary’s holding his own, Bri’s holding her own, and so am I. There are only three of us, but we’re representing for the WHC and DRC, catching consistent waves. Even a guy who snakes Bri apologizes to her when she returns to the lineup.
“It happens,” she says.
“No, no,” says the snake. “That was my fault.”
First Intermission:
We go in for water and snacks. Initially, I had been tired from the lack of sleep and the drive at first light, but after those first few waves the rush of stoke provided the energy needed. To keep surfing, these breaks are important.
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| If we had known how much surf we would score, we would've brought ALL of our food. . . |
The crowd thins out even more. I go back out followed by Gary and then Bri. I wish I had a way to describe these waves even more, but they’re all cliché. Reason being there is no change to the quality or surf conditions. The onshores are a little stronger, but the kelp beds keep the surface texture to a minimum.
If Gary was tired making the drive over here, then he’s Gary 2.0 at this moment. He’s throwing buckets out on every wave he catches. He even tells me that he witnessed Bri throw out some spray on her backhand lefts. With the tide starting to go down, the waves begin to stand up even more. Even the outside sets are inconsequential, easy to duckdive and unhindering in the impact zone.
Intermission 2:
Gary and I head back to the campgrounds to see about securing a campsite. We learn that we could have written our request on our day-pass paperwork, but since we didn’t we’re behind several people on the list for a site.
“Maybe we’ll just get a hotel in Lompoc,” says Gary, “And head back here in the morning.” I hate the idea, but it’s our best option if we can’t get a site. Having scored good surf this morning, I hate to leave. I now appreciate the value of having a campsite here.
Walking back to The Y Spot, we feel the onshore wind much stronger on our faces. Maybe the window of good surf has ended, but the surf has become, believe it or not, even more consistent. The tide, now lower, makes the shape the most vertical that it’ been all day. Bri’s on her chair, relaxing and watching the surf. Only six guys are out. The wind is making the waves break a little faster but not ruining the quality at all.
We paddle out again but this time I begin to feel it. The waves are getting harder to duckdive. My rear delts and neck muscles are starting to burn. Instead of going on every wave, I pass a lot of them up. Time to conserve. I only go for the best ones.
The only bad thing I can think of is how, after surfing so many waves, limited my surfing abilities are. The lack of repertoire that I have comes to light, just carves, snaps, and cutbacks. The only variance I have to any of these maneuvers is how much power I put into them. Since I suck at barrels and can’t do any airs, I’d like to think that I’m on my way to becoming a good power surfer, but it’s now noon, and I’ve been trying to power surf since 0700, losing power in the process.
I switch to a thruster setup, hoping that I can get more arc in my turns, but I find myself falling behind the sections a little more, so I switch back.
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| Awww yes . . . here's me and my girlish hips. |
More Intermissions:
We don’t take breaks at the same times. Bri goes in on her own will from being so depleted. I had brought two MREs with me. Bri eats one of them, and I offer the other to Gary. As hungry as I am, I know Gary needs it more than I do because he drove out here. But I’m exhausted. I eat everything else that we have: applesauce, crackers, pretzels, five peanut butter cups, all of our water.
We’re speechless in the lineup, unable to say anything that doesn’t start with, “I can’t believe. . .” Most of the time all we can do is smile and nod.
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| All day |
By 1415, Gary heads back to the campgrounds solo to see if he’s gonna be able to get a campsite. He grabs his board and his gear. He’s done. So am I, but I just can’t pass this up. The surf continues to pump, waves go unridden. I must stay out.
Finally, around 1500 the wind is so strong onshore that the peaks have lost some quality. Latecomers are still paddling out, their faces plastered with stoke. Yes, the wind’s blowing out the surf a bit, but by local South Bay standards, these would be good conditions. Plus, I’m surfing like shit. A lesson a learned from my brother, surfing tired leads to surfing like shit and bad habits, and I am surfing like shit. It’s hard to make it out now. On a duckdive, my hamstring cramps. A little later, my bis and tris begin to cramp, too, a telltale sign that I’m losing electrolytes.
Bri and I make the hump back at 1530, leaving uncrowded surf behind us. I haven’t eaten much. It’s time to call it a day.
Success:
Reaching the campgrounds, I see Gary by his Suburban. I shrug my shoulders and nod at him, waiting for the word.
He grimaces and shakes his head, and then he smiles and gives me a thumbs up, pointing towards the bluffs. “Look up there,” he says. There’s the Quik van, his son Russ’s work vehicle. It’s parked at a campsite. We’re staying.
The four of us head to the Jalama store and buy breakfast/lunch/dinner and grub over how incredible the surf was.
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| Russ the Ripper. If it wasn't for his hookups, we wouldn't have gotten the campsite. |
In the evening, the onshore wind switches offshore again, but the high tide has the breaks swamped out. Even if The Y Spot is working, I couldn’t surf it with how exhausted I am. At the north end of the campgrounds, the river mouth is breaking but nowhere near as good as how he had it earlier.
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| Best view that I've ever had from a tent. |
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| A lot of people make the trek to camp out at this spot. They know wassup. |
Bri and I set up our tent overlooking the ocean. The sunset’s at our feet. Reflecting on the day, I can’t believe how good the surf was and how long it stayed consistent. Also, we reflect on how we did it right by setting up a satellite surf station at The Y Spot. Never in Cali had I surfed that long with only water and snack breaks. It was still surfable when we left, but we were too drained to carry on. I know the word “epic” gets easily played out. I don’t use it much, but I think today’s surf qualifies. By far, the best Cali session that I’ve ever had in my life. Longest session I’ve ever had in my life. I’m so fulfilled that even if tomorrow’s forecast reigns true to smaller surf conditions, I still have enough stoke afterburn to last me a week.
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| High tide. High Bri. |
Without Gary’s invite, Bri and I would have just surfed HB again or stayed local. I’d like to spread the word, post pictures, and call my friends. I pick up my phone again. Still no service. We’re disconnected, but it’s okay. I don’t have the energy to describe this experience anyway.
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| Firewood, courtesy of Jalama staff. |
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