Day 265
Saturday February 7th
Secret Surf Spot
A major winter swell was predicted to hit the left coast early this weekend. It just happened that the bulk of that swell would hit within driving distance of the couch I was sleeping on. We checked the buoys and they were reading right around 4ish feet. Not great but not too bad either. Right at the butt crack of dawn I got up, dressed, stumbled around looking for coffee, bumped into things and generally made a mess getting ready. It was barely 5 in the AM can you blame me! The rain was holding steady in a lite drizzle. The buoys though were giving us more and more hope. Coffee & rain coat firmly in hand we headed out. As I am atrocious at directions I can't quite recall if we headed north or south. We drove through the storm for a bit, it seemed like it could have been 20 minutes but it may just as well have been 4 hours.
Without much fan fare we pulled off the desolate stretch of highway and parked in a mud puddle. We were here, but not really. We still had to hike a hardy 4+ miles over private property patrolled by shotgun totting red necks (I am still not sure if they are suppose to be protecting their virgin ranch lands or their freckled daughters chastity-- suppose it doesn't matter, a shotgun is a shotgun!). Then again it may have only been a 100 yard hike but with a bag full of camera gear, video gear, audio gear, the prospect of irritable ranchers with guns, and dueling banjos playing in my mind's eye over and over it may have just seemed like 4+ miles.
The wet muddy walk went without incident. The morning scenery was breath taking. The rain had let up a bit thankfully. I didn't feel like I was in California at all. We were surrounded by lush green hills and towering seaside cliffs. The ocean below us pounded itself against the rocky bluffs with one angry wave after another. The incoming swell had a gun-metal blueish gray tone of cold seriousness. Sets were rolling in fairly regulary. Most stayed right around just above head high. Every now and again a double over-head beast would jack up and throw itself at the shore.
Looking at the swirling boiling mass of cold undertow below me I could taste the faint sulfuric hints of fear in my dry mouth. Looking at the surfers next me I could feel the electricity of anticipation in the air. Poor crazy bastards! If they were even a little bit intimidated they never showed it. Instead they charged across the last field with a bellow and got ready to tap the source.
End of the road, suiting up in the cold.
Look one way then the next, then sprint across four lanes of traffic holding your breath the entire time. Dodging 18 wheelers and the police, wait in the median strip for an opening. Yup this is exactly why I crawled out of bed at 5AM...!
Sign? What sign?
The long walk in is actually quicker then the paddle out I've heard. I am not sure I believe it.
Piddle paddle puddle.
Timing the sets, drooling the whole time.
Almost there.
Just in time.
Vice Vickford sex-waxing it up.
Butters follows suit.
Hints of Al.
One way down.
The other way down.
Photo monkey.
Dogs of Winter.
Sun rise on the soul surfer.
Green Hills (of Earth) dreaming about a classy Channel Islands girl.
