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 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.