I took a risk and wrote this ambitious article on spec. Luckily my hard work paid off – San Diego Magazine decided to publish it. Check out the print edition if you can. The photographer did an amazing job.
It was my birthday last Wednesday. Luckily there was swell in the water, so I decided to celebrate by going surfing. With plenty of time on my hands, paddling out at Black’s Beach - San Diego’s best and least accesible spot - seemed like a no-brainer.
Yet as I drove near Torrey Pines, I couldn’t think of a more fitting place to ring in my birthday. The wave quality is no where near as good as Black’s, but it was ground zero for all of my surfing milestones - my first wave, cutback, floater and spin cycle treatment at the hands of a particularly burly wave.
Torrey Pines is steeped in nostalgia for me, but truth be told, she’s a moody temptress on most occasions. She’s picky about the tides and only takes certain swells. Even if these factors align, which takes some kind of astrological miracle or possibly a unicorn crying into the water, her sandbars have to be just so. On big swells, Torrey Pines normally produces board-breaking waves that make you question why you even bother. Yet occasionally she treats you just right, and you know why you deal with all the abuse. Wednesday was one of those days at Torrey Pines.
Thanks to heavily overcast skies reflecting on the water, the line between sea and sky blurred into shades of grey. From the shore I watched six surfers bob up and down as a series of 6-foot waves rolled in. There was only a hint of wind in the air. I dropped my board into the grey water and paddled out.
An older surfer caught a left-breaking wave 100 yards from me. His longboard carefully trimmed across the face of the wave. He just kept going and going, subtly maneuvering to stay on the face of the wave as I kept paddling. Before I knew it, he’d nearly closed the gap between us. He kicked out of the wave before it collapsed - only five yards from me. A ride that long had to be sign of good things to come.
I didn’t catch a bad wave that day. The wave peak kept shifting. But Torrey Pines being home, my instincts told me where to sit in the lineup. It’s a kind of six sense that surfers develop by being a regular at a spot, even if it is a shifty beachbreak.
I had been in the water for about an hour when I anticipated some set waves. I lined up 10 yards further out than a few nearby surfers. A 7-foot wave approached and I barely caught it before it crashed down on me. I raced across the steepest part of the wave, gaining speed. Crouching lower, putting pressure on my back foot and torquing my body, I felt the tension ball up in my board as I bottom turned and climbed up the face of a wave. I released the pent-up energy by smashing the top of the wave with my entire board - fins slid and buckets of water flew through the air (reading this part again, this sort of sounds like a sexual metaphor - I may or may not have impregnated a few women with that turn). I descended back down the face of the wave. When I was a few feet out in front of the curl, I pivoted my weight and cut back - a youngster paddling out gave me a few “stoked” hollers. Zipping down the line, I rode the wave all the way to the beach.
Three hours and two dead arms later, I exited the water. Walking to the parking lot, I looked back at the sandstone cliffs and the grey waves, which seemed less and less distinguishable from the grey sky the more time I spent at the beach. When was the last time the waves were that good at Torrey Pines? Last spring? Two years ago?
Best. Birthday present. Ever.
Dane Reynolds + Joy Divsion = So sick!
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.
Drive Up the California Coast: Part Four - Arriving in San Francisco
School, business, strip club. Book store, pizza shop, strip club.
Looking for my hostel, every sixth building I passed on a street in downtown San Francisco seemed to be a strip club - a pattern I’m sure bachelor parties with fistfuls of singles and lonely men love.
Even though the area (near the infamous Haight-Ashbury) was brimming with incongruence and odd characters, several people I passed gave me funny looks. One of my hands was holding a bag with clothes and necessities, the other hand cradled a surfboard against my rib cage. Somehow I managed to out-incongruent a truly weird area. Win.
This was my first time in San Francisco. I put off surfing/homeless escapades for two days to explore the city.
The sun beamed down on normally foggy San Francisco, validating my decision to retreat to the city. Better yet, the clear skies were forecasted to continue for one more day - the last day of the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, a free three-day music festival that happens every year thanks to a generous millionaire who funds the whole thing. More on that later.
I checked my bag and my board into the luggage room of the hostel, drawing more funny looks - this time from international travelers.
I should rewind a few hours. Prior to arriving at the hostel, I happened upon a really cool area near the Golden Gate Bridge. I climbed on top of bunkers that were apparently built to defend against invaders during World War 2 and snapped some obligatory tourist pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge. I spotted a path that lead down to the beach, so I headed that way. Out of breath joggers running the opposite way puffed past me as I descended down to a small slice of beach.
I had no idea where Ocean Beach was, but I knew I wanted to visit it at some point during my trip. Somehow, by driving through the rollercoaster-like streets and warm-hued houses of San Francisco, I managed to find it. I guess my internal compass is always pointing toward waves. Ocean Beach is known for being heavy and changing dramatically from hour to hour. I just wrote a story about a legendary surfboard shaper who lived near Ocean Beach for 50 years. He told me about 30-minute long paddleouts thanks to relentless waves and sweeping currents. But when it’s good, it’s good. Rumor has it that heavy barrels freight train up and down the beach.
So back to the hostel. The rest of the night was less-than-remarkable. I met a few travellers, bought a few paperbacks at a famous bookstore while dudes lined up at the various strip clubs near my hostel. Paperbacks and strip clubs, feel as though there’s a joke here I’m missing.
The next day I met Simon, a really cool British traveller, who was making his way through the the states. Interesting guy - his recent work experience includes McDonalds and an interview with Google. We share a mutual love of The Wire. We went to the last day of the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, and as the name hints, the festival includes more than just Bluegrass. Did I mention it was free?
I was just stoked to go to a free concert, and was really surprised at how many great bands I discovered. Take Elbow or Duvashka (spelling?) - no one ever talks about these bands and they were amazing.
Prior to the concert, I told Simon he should try and impregnate a woman in every town he visits. He started talking to a girl during Elbow’s show. I nudged him, just a reminder.
That about wraps up my San Francisco chronicles. Since this entry was missing homeless car camping, don’t worry - the next one will feature plenty of that.
This was my first time doing a Q&A. I’m really happy with how it turned out. The guy I interviewed wrote an incredible book about the surfers and history behind Cortes Bank.
As he says in the article:
“In a weird way it’s a story that kind of parallels the American experience. I know that sounds like a grandiose thing to say, but you have this place that was first inhabited by natives thousands of years ago. And then you have these white explorers who eventually colonize and discovered it [Cortes Bank] during the period of Manifest Destiny. And any people who have tried to hoard it or make it theirs, whether it’s for abalone, treasure or waves. All the people out there, they want a piece of that rock.”
Drive Up the California Coast: Part Three - Big Sur and Panhandling in Santa Cruz
I left the campgrounds at Santa Barbara in search of waves. Unfortunately my phone died on me the previous night… Ahh to hell with it, I’m all about written accounts of my trips, but sometimes pictures suffice. In summary: I took Highway 1 up the coast through Big Sur. Big Sur = awesome. Not finding waves = not so awesome. Oh, and I spent the night in my car on the streets of Santa Cruz. Truly homeless. And once again, strangely enjoyed a great night’s sleep. Perhaps I was born to panhandle.
Will write a more detailed account of day four.
Drive Up the California Coast: Part Two - Camping with The Band
Before leaving Ventura, I decided to check the waves again. The spot that Jason and I had surfed the previous day still looked good. This trip was supposed to be about exploration and surfing new spots. I pictured myself with a scraggly beard, camping out on a lone hill overlooking an empty lineup in Central California - living off the land and surviving on only my wits. Possibly with a Native American as a friend. But who was I to deny good waves breaking right in front of me?
Three hours later, I was on the road again with a soggy wetsuit. A friend of mine told me about a camping spot north of Point Conception that’s beside a beachbreak. It was 15 miles down a windy road off Highway 1. Normally that kind of dedication would have me looking elsewhere. But without any agenda, I decided to make the trek.
I sang along to The Band while taking every curve. I really identify with The Band lately. In the 1967, full-blown psychedelia and two-hour long jam sessions were the norm. In response, The Band retreated to a house and played scaled back rock n’ roll. This back to basics sound later inspired the Beatles and Eric Clapton. For me, after 80 days of galavanting around Europe at a hectic pace, I’m trying to live a simpler, more focused life. The parallel may be a bit of a stretch; however, I’m still going with it.
I arrived at the spot around 4 p.m. Besides the campsite, there was little sign of civilization. 50 feet from my camp spot (minus the tent since I was sleeping in my car), fast, low-tide waves lapped onto shore. Grass covered sandstone cliffs towered over the beach.
Having surfed nearly six hours in the last 24 hours, I decided to wait to surf until morning when the tide would be more ideal. I still kept an eye on the conditions as I ate a hamburger. The wind was calm. The shape of the waves slowly improved as the tide rose. A few legitimately fun waves broke farther and farther outside. But by that point, half of the sun was hidden by the horizon.
I retreated to my car and prepared to spend a night inside. Oddly enough, I enjoyed a great night of sleep in the narrow quarters. 10 hours later I awoke feeling refreshed and checked the surf.
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.
