Drive Up the California Coast: Part One - Scoring Great Waves Only Three Hours into My Trip

I recently drove up the California coast on a whim when two of my stories for the week got canceled.  

Truthfully, the week-long trip was partly premeditated. I’ve been looking for an excuse to head up the coast with my surfboard for more than two years. In the past four months I’ve been to 14 countries, yet after seven years in San Diego I’ve never been north of Santa Barbara.  Without any commitments, journalistic or otherwise, weighing me down, I went in search of the unknown. The only plans I had were two nights I booked at a hostel in San Francisco. Other than that, I was free to roam where I wanted to.

To keep my trip spontaneous, I was fully prepared to sleep in my car for a few nights. I pushed down the seat down of my Honda Accord and laid out a sleeping bag on top of foam cushion in anticipation for a few nights of homeless-like sleeping conditions. To hell with paying for motels and camping grounds. People assume I’m rich when I tell them I traveled around Europe for 80 days. Not really - I’m just frugal vagabond. 

Lucky for me, I didn’t have to spend my first night illegally catching some Z’s. And yes, I did some research - sleeping in your car is illegal. 

I alerted friends, family and loose acquaintances that I would be leaving for San Francisco via Facebook. Oddly enough, one of the loose acquaintances, a guy I met in Costa Rica three years ago by the name of Jason (that’s him holding his son above), offered to not only host me for a night, but also show me some surf spots in Ventura. 

Three hours into my journey, with Jason as my guide, we absolutely scored. Consistent head-high waves broke over three cobblestone peaks. Being the reclusive types, we surfed the peak furthest north with only a few other souls in the water. 

Many of the waves were fast and only offered a short section to bash. But the occasional one would wedge up just right. Sitting side-by-side, Jason caught a long right. I watched from the lineup as he made his way down the line. The upper half of his body occasionally peaked over the lip of the wave. A hundred yards later, he kicked out of the wave. Paddling back into the lineup, he watched me drop into  a wave that was virtually identical to his. My surfing isn’t as solid as Jason’s and I wasn’t as familiar with break - so I struggled to keep up with the racy wave and didn’t get in as many turns. But the end of the wave was really fun. I finally got in front of the face after several pumps. A nice section ripe for carving stood up only 10 yards or so from the shore. I got in a few turns and capped the wave off with a floater.

Jason told me the spot, which breaks because of a recently formed rivermouth, is nicknamed “hobo jungle” because of the homeless people who camp in the woods that parallel the surf. I was in no position to laugh or smirk considering my plan for sleeping.

After nearly three hours of paddling,  Jason and I had worked up a massive appetite. He ordered Chinese food at his house. And being the best host ever, wouldn’t let me pay. His son Reid just turned one. Like my 14-month-old niece, Reid seemed determined to touch every object in the house in as short amount of time as possible. I laughed and watched him try his best to accomplish this feat. I met Jason’s wife, who was also very nice.

Once Reid was in bed, Jason and I watched the Red Sox’s historic collapse come to its ugly end on TV. Unbelievable. 

The next morning I said goodbye to Jason and his family (which is when I snapped the above picture). I wasn’t exactly sure where I was headed, but I had a few ideas in mind.