"I have a deep fear of the 405, so I could not stop
to surf, even though Zuma looked surprisingly inviting. I kept
driving, but not without a wistful view in the rearview."
Last week, I hopped in a rented white Jeep, slid onto
the 101, and headed south. I drove past Rincon, where the
tide was too high.
I followed the maze of freeway construction toward Ventura.
They’re remaking the 101. When it ends, no one seems to know. Keep
left. Merge right. No outlet. Do not enter.
Looking over my shoulder, I could see the ant farm swarming
small peaks at Emma Wood.
We really should rename the place to Dane’s. What’s Emma Wood
ever done for us, anyway?
I always wonder who names surf spots and which name after what
must be so many tries finally sticks. I always imagine Hobson as
the drunk in the parking lot, the guy who sat there every day, beer
in hand, telling stories about that one day over and over. Hobson
was probably the rich guy who owned all the land for miles around,
but I like my version better.
I was on my way to do a launch party for a guide book to
Southern California surfing that I helped write with the crew at
Wildsam. Yes, I helped write a guidebook. I definitely gave away
all the secret spots, because if it has a parking lot and a
bathroom, it’s definitely a secret spot.
I have a deep and abiding fear of the 405, so I could not stop
to surf, even though the north end of Zuma looked surprisingly
inviting. I kept driving, but not without a wistful view in the
rearview.
In fact, the 405 was mostly behaving, if rolling 80 mph with all
your closest friends is behaving. If you don’t have to slam on the
brakes and send your boards flying through the front window, did
you even drive the 405?
I bounced off the freeway at Bolsa Chica and headed to the beach
in search of a bathroom. I did not know there was a $15 day use fee
at Bolsa Chica State Beach. You live and learn in this life, and
sometimes you pay $15 to use the bathroom.
The tide is too high, the wind is too much — surfing likes to
make it hard. I got to Huntington with time to surf, but the wind
got there, too. I sat on a bench with a Spindrift and watched
someone launch over the falls on a walled up set. A couple of guys
scrapped around a tiny inside peak.
Maybe I should surf, I said to no one in particular.
Then I thought about pulling on my suit, and walking across the
long stretch of sand. I thought about going over the falls on the
closeouts, and the meager insiders on offer.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.
Later that night I sat around with some newfound friends and
talked about surfing. Thanks to the Covid years, I forgot how to
talk about things in front of people, so that was exciting. I
probably sounded just as dumb as I do here. It’s good to stay on
brand.
The subject turned to surf films. Five Summer Stories. Sprout.
Punk and airs, I said. I just want to watch some airs.
The next day, sitting on the 405 again, I thought about my
favorite surf films. Do I even have any?
I was struggle-bussing to Venice for coffee, and I was not
making all that much progress. The slow crawl through Carson left
me with plenty of time to think, though not many brain cells to do
it.
I tried to make a list: Trilogy, Lost Atlas, Psychic Migrations,
and Leave a Message. But surely, I missed something. The lack brain
cells, you know.
I drank an amazing espresso at Alana’s on Venice Boulevard, a
crowded joint with a patio out back. Like a tourist, I cruised
Abbot Kinney. Then suddenly, I was back out at the beach in Santa
Monica.
After stopping for a sandwich in Malibu, I tried to get back in
the white Jeep. There was a woman sitting in the front seat,
talking on the phone. I had opened the car to the wrong white Jeep.
What if this was my car, I wondered. What if I was this woman
talking on the phone? I wonder if we could be friends.
Eventually, I found my own white Jeep, the one with the
surfboards and the melting wax in the back.
Maybe I can make it to Rincon before sunset.
Maybe this time the tide will be right and the wind won’t be on
it.
I drove past Rincon without even stopping, and made it home
without ever taking my boards out of the back.
So much of surfing is all the time in between. Driving around
California with boards in the back of the car totally counts as
surfing.
Go on, change my mind.