Drive Up the Coast:  Part Five - Going Home 

Apparently San Francisco didn’t want me to leave. The city pulled out all stops to prevent me from smoothly making my way south. It was raining. Traffic choked every intersection and freeway. And Simon from my previous post was a wingman away from fathering a child in San Francisco (I suggested he should impregnate a woman in every city he visits to really commemorate his trip). Yet I knew I had to get home, so I said goodbye to the oddball buildings surrounding my hostel, including the strip clubs and funky book shops.

I picked up my car from a parking garage. Felt bad for the attendant who retrieved it. The smell of my damp wetsuit assaulted my nose as soon as I opened the door. I half expected the odor - can only imagine how it felt being blindsided by such a stench. Tipped him a few extra bucks.

I navigated my car through the worst of the traffic with lots of expletives aimed at cars in front of me grace.  

I hoped that Santa Cruz’s wind-protected cliffs would groom the stormy waves into something rideable. Checked a few spots with no luck. Decided to drive to San Luis Obispo overnight in hopes of waking up to waves. 

Once again, being the awesomely cheap traveller I am, I decided to forgo paying for a motel in favor of sleeping in my car. As past posts indicate, this proved surprisingly comfortable. I slept for 9 hours several days prior. I picked a discreet spot near the beach to park, laid down in the backseat and nodded off on top of a sleeping bag. The grinding noise of a drill penetrating through asphalt woke me up. The sun barely pushed through hazy clouds. I stepped out of my back seat in pajama bottoms. I was encircled by a construction crew. Turns out my secluded parking spot was a construction zone - something I didn’t notice while driving in the dead of night. Darted into the front seat. Luckily the workers only noticed me when my car was pulling away. Didn’t check the rearview window to see if any angry fists were shaking in my direction.

Though the storm had passed and the winds were calm, the waves suffered from what we surfers call morning sickness. Messy 4-6 waves broke a stone’s throw from a rock the size of small mountain. Suited up. The rain-drenched sand crumbled with each step that I took on the beach. Strapped on my booties and paddled out. 

Fun, but difficult waves. Locals had a wedgy left dailed in, while I tried to pick off rights without success. Finally decided to man up and take the left, as awkward as it felt. Call me Zoolanger, but I’m not very confident when it comes to pulling into big lefts (I’m not an ambi-turner). Caught a few fun ones. The weather warmed up and the residual effects of the previous night’s howling winds slowly disappeared. A fun window opened up for about an hour. Paddled into all kinds of great waves. Cold water invigorated me. 

And before I knew it, my session was over and I was headed back to San Diego. My surf trip was over.

You know how the unexplored part of a map is grey in video games? Despite travelling as far as Slovenia this summer, before bolting up the coast, Central California was just a series of cold grays. But now all of these spots up the coast have been painted and filled in with memories - how the waves break at certain spots, winding Highway 1, the slope of San Francisco, etc. If I can, I’d like to make this a yearly sabbatical.