WhutsHappening

Savage Surfari through an Untamed Rica Costa

 

It was cold and windy the day we left Annapolis for Costa Rica.  The six of us were in our early 20s, recently birthed from college and already facing the mundane routine of everyday working middle class life.  My five companions were all going to surf, and while I had never even touched a surfboard before, I was invited to go along and take a photo documentary of the trip.  We were heading into the relatively unknown.  Two of the guys had been to Tamarindo before and another had been to the Caribbean side of Costa Rica.  But, I think we all knew, because of a lack of any real plans, except where we were staying the first night, the date we were to leave, and the desire to find good surf, we really didn’t know what was going to happen.  As we passed by the suburban houses, strip malls, and car dealerships on the way to the airport, the rest of the guys couldn’t stop making comments like, “this is so much better than being at work.”  I wondered how much different Costa Rica would be the way one might wonder what he will dream about that night. 

We arrived in San Jose at around 8 pm.  We got our luggage with no problems, hopped into a 4x4 Toyota Land Cruiser Prado, a rhino of a car not imported to the states, and headed down Central America’s lone major highway.  There were very few signs telling the way and even less telling where the exits would take you.  The terrain became mountainous, and we watched as trucks passed cars along the dangerous, winding roads, each time thinking we would witness a horrific accident.  Soon after passing a big street festival, we stopped at a restaurant where the locals belted out their favorite songs at the karaoke machine.  I ordered an arroz con pollo dish that gave new meaning to the chicken and rice dinner I always ordered at Mexican restaurants in the states.  If nothing else, I knew the food would be good.

It was past midnight when we arrived at the six-room Hotel Buccanero in Playa Grande, just down the beach from the town of Tamarindo.  The owner, James, an English gentleman in his early sixties, was there to greet us after four hours of driving.  We walked down to the beach, which we could barely see because it was so dark, only to be greeted by some sort of policeman who ordered us off the beach – it was egg laying time for giant sea turtles.  We went peacefully back to the hotel, had another beer, and went to our rooms to rest. 

One of our crew woke up at 5:15 to catch the first crop of waves from the incoming tide.  I got up about an hour later with the rest of the guys and we walked about 50 meters to the beach where decent surf was breaking.  I took some photos, relaxed under a palm hunt, and looked around.  There were few signs of modern civilization.  Far down the crescent-shaped beach on the left was Tamarindo.  To the right was more beach and a rocky cliff jutting into the ocean.  In front of me were my buddies and about fifteen other surfers jockeying for waves.  This was Costa Rica.

We came back to the tiny hotel to have breakfast and coffee while Clara, James’ six-year-old daughter, laughed at the birds that flew into the kitchen looking for handouts.  During the afternoon we traveled to Tamarindo, taking a dirt road short cut that James had told us about.  A very small town, Tamarindo has a picturesque beach with horse riding, surfing, and boats.  It hosts a few hotels, including a Best Western, and its main street (the only street really) is lined with small shops, a grocery store, and surf lesson businesses.  After having a look around and purchasing beer, water, and some herbal refreshments, we headed back to Playa Grande for more surfing. 

            The sun set over the water, which made it difficult to photograph the surfers.  But, as the sun retreated over the horizon, it became a beautiful merger of sparkling water, reddish-purple skies that begged to be painted, and battles to catch waves.  I got some good shots, the guys caught some good waves, and then we all strolled back with the ocean still in our ears to shower and get ready for some local night life. 

            After eating, of all things, pizza, at a local place that cooked their pizza in a giant outdoor stone oven, we headed to a bar that James recommended called “Why Not.”  There weren’t too many patrons there, only about ten local women and the owner/bartender who was from Denmark.  The women were very friendly - too friendly.  We soon found out from our Danish friend why the place was called Why Not:  after 10pm it becomes a brothel.  We quickly drank our beers as the Dane tried to coax us into buying some time with his girls and left for a beach party in Tamarindo.  Mostly young people from all over the globe, dancing, drinking, conversing, enjoying the freedom of the night there next to the ocean, the beach party was more our speed.

            The next morning delivered a rather disappointing set of waves, but we met some fellow Americans, a recently engaged couple and the groom-to-be’s best friend from California.  The guys owned a pool cleaning company and were a mix of Spicoli, Cheech, and Patrick Swayze from Point Break.  The bride-to-be was getting her master’s degree in marine biology.  As we shared a beer and a bowl with them, they talked freely and with enthusiasm about how nice it was to be there and not back in California working.  We couldn’t have agreed more.

            That afternoon we packed our things and headed north to the world renowned surfer’s destination Witch’s Rock.  We stopped in the town of Liberia for some supplies along the way.  Liberia is bigger and more modern than Tamarindo, but it’s inland and doesn’t boast beautiful beaches. Certainly a trade-off.  We then traveled another 20 or 30 kilometers to the park entrance where we had to pay $6 to enter. 

The park ranger that greeted us said we had about seven kilometers of paved and 13 of unpaved road ahead.  No one is allowed in without four-wheel drive.  The paved road wasn’t in too poor a condition, but the unpaved road was filled with pot holes that could double for moon craters and rocky hills and steeps made of small boulders. There were also dry creek beds that flow with water during the wet season that had to be traversed.  Taking about an hour to complete, it was the longest 13 kilometers I’ve ever traveled, except maybe a rush hour trip through D.C. and it left me with a mild case of whiplash.  After the final obstacle, a wood bridge about the width of our car over a small stream, we arrived at the camp site.  We paid another two dollars to set up camp under some trees and headed to the beach.

The sand was hot and scorched our feet.  We looked around.  No hotels.  No houses.  No roads, TVs, or phones.  Nothing but ocean and forest for miles and miles.  Soon forgetting about the pain from beneath us, we looked down the beach to see what had until that moment only been an image on a poster hanging on my buddy’s living room wall.  Its size, and the looming ridge of green mountains behind it, made Witch’s Rock look like the clenched fist of a colossal titan raised out of the ocean in one last act of defiance against the gods before being buried under the ocean, stuck there for eternity.  And that’s what also made it look much closer than it actually was.  About a mile down the beach, in loose sand hardly ever traversed, it was a long walk.  But, the payoff was worth it.  Well, at least the view was.  There were only about five or six other surfers there, and although the solitude amidst that incredible place was fresh and peaceful, it didn’t make the waves any better for the guys.  Either way, I think they were happy just to be there, bobbing on their boards, waiting patiently for a wave.

High tide left small pools of water on top of a shelf of sand formed by the outgoing water.  The still water reflected the orange-yellow glow of the dying sky and the drift wood that was left on the beach was bleached by the sun and buried in the sand, forming strange shapes that look like serpents or a graveyard for trees.  We bathed in the late afternoon ocean water.  At 80 degrees it’s quite refreshing.  We chopped some wood to start a fire in our stone grill, threw on a huge fish, and ate our dinner as the darkness came quickly down.   

            I played my guitar after dinner as the mosquitoes made a meal out of my ankles, feet, and legs.  But, the wind picked up and drove the pests away.  For fun, someone threw a few bananas on the grill and after a few minutes we scooped warm gooey banana into our mouths for a nice desert.  From about 9:30 until we went to bed, we were on raccoon watch.  The raccoons were big and fearless, walking straight up to our camp even while we were still sitting there.  What was worse was that it was so dark we couldn’t see them.  All we could hear were little feet pitter-pattering around us, or a “raccoon proof” trashcan getting tipped over.  I swore one was trying to get into my tent all night. 

            We trekked down to Witch’s Rock again the next day.  The surf was as disappointing as it was the day before.  So after a quick bath in the ocean, using lemon juice for shampoo, we packed up, drove the 20 kilometers out of the park, and headed south to Nosara on a tip from another surfer.     

            Nosara is a little town mostly inhabited and visited by English speaking peoples.  Canadians and Americans.  There are yoga clinics, and the restaurants and bars are all set up and run like most places you’d find in the states – only you’re in Costa Rica.  All the shops, and by all I mean maybe three or four, are tourist oriented, sell mock Tican bowls and artifacts, and T-shirts.  The surf in Nosara is big and a world renowned surfing competition is held there every year.          

Since we didn’t really have a plan on where to stay, we stopped at a place that looked suitable for our needs and budget that had rooms and a bar.  The place was called Blew Dogs and the manager, Jose, told us that he only had one room with two beds.  Not enough for us.  So, Jose told us that just around the corner there was a place for $10 a night.  We followed his directions and  ended up at Tiki Surf Camp, a big tiki hut that used to be a disco-tech, but was now simply a surf camp.  Most importantly it had room for us all in the loft above.  The place was run by an American woman, Debbie, who only wore tube tops and bikini bottoms.  Her three-year-old son, Darrian, named after a famous surfer, was excited to have us there to play with when the surf was out. 

            The two days and two nights at the hut were the best time we had.  We slept in the open air with the tiki roof above us.  A ceiling fan kept us cool and the bugs away.  In the early morning and at night we woke to hear the  Howler monkeys in the jungle.  Their howl is deep and enormous, like some demonic beast calling out in the darkness.  They were in the trees nibbling on sugar cane as we walked from the tiki hut through the jungle to the beach.  They’re small and black with a long curling tail, and looked nothing like the sound that they created.

            In the mornings the guys surfed and I snapped photos of them as they caught some of the best waves of the trip.  Part of me wished I could surf with them, but I was content to watch them paddle into the waves, pop up, and drop into tall, crisp waves that spewed off mist from the offshore winds.  In the afternoons we played  with Darian, who reminded us of what it’s like to see the world through a child’s eyes, riding his toy truck around, giggling at our little tricks, napping when he got cranky.  We rented ATVs and zoomed around the dirt roads.  I went off by myself and found a road that went to the top of a hill, passing by a few Ticos outside their house that looked at me strangely.  I came to a point that looked out over the ocean and the dense foliage below.  It was a view that the Costa Rican government would want to put on an advertisement for tourism:  picturesque and quiet with a warm wind that could make anyone forget the rest of the world ever existed. 

One afternoon, Debbie’s boyfriend, Atto, took us to the beach and over a rocky protrusion to a local restaurant for lunch.  We sat at tables under a thatched roof and drank beers as we watched children washing the fresh caught fish that was about to be cooked and then enjoyed by us.  Other children played a game, kicking an inflated ball around near their shanty houses that sat no more than 50 yards from the beach.  We all wonder what that life would be like, having so little in such a paradise.  Could we live that life? 

            It was a sad day when we left the tiki hut.  Darian yelled at us and even threw a rock at our car as we backed out of the driveway.  Who knows when the next group of guys would come through and play with him again?  We were heading further south to Playa Hermosa for the final two days of our trip.  We got a little lost, one time ending up on a grassy path where only four-wheelers are supposed to go.  But we got back on track and were able to see all the countryside that was covered in darkness when we first arrived in Costa Rica. 

Barbed wire fences with posts made from trees lined almost every kilometer we drove.  These weren’t the posts one sees in America that are cut, shaped, and treated.  They’re actual trees, cut into halves and thirds and grouped into twos and threes and stuck in the ground.  Some had even sprouted new leaves again and lined up looking like a fence of young trees.  Cattle appeared sporadically in fields of brown and green, or in herds in the middle of the road.  The hills rolled into one another, sometimes shooting up very high, then falling down, looking like a rounded off line chart.  Dense patches of trees and chaotically placed palm trees filled the hills and fields.  My favorite were the trees that had lost their leaves for the dry season.  Their limbs spread out, pale white and brown, in strange patterns, sometime tabling off at the top. 

After about an hours drive, we finally arrived in Playa Hermosa.  Two of the guys had stayed there before and we got an air conditioned room for the first night, and a much smaller, much hotter room for the second at a beach front hotel.  The black sand there showed the evidence of the volcanic activity that built the land here and it’s so hot during the day that I felt like I was walking on a volcano.  The surf was big, but broke straight over and surfing for the guys was difficult, so most of the day was spent sunbathing by the pool or lazily swinging in hammocks.  A few thoughts of the end of the trip entered the conversation, but were fleeting and promptly forgotten. 

We drove a few miles to the nearby town of Jaco for some night life.  It was the largest, most modern town we went to and offered ATMs, restaurants, bars, dance clubs, shops, surfing schools, fishing trips, strip clubs, drug stores, and drug dealers.  After stopping at an ATM, we went to a restaurant, a bar, and a strip club.  We drank, and we drank hard.  Up to this point, the escape that large amounts of alcohol provided in our real lives wasn’t needed.  In Costa Rica we were escaped.  Was it the life of the town that bled into us?  Could we not look unabashed at a Costa Rican stripper without a good buzz?  Or was it all these things, the ATM modern world, that pricked some part of us and reminded us where we came from and where we were about to go back to that caused us to get so damn drunk? 

The next morning we woke up late.  The sun had already risen and the room was stuffy and hot.  We tried to shrug off our hangovers and drove down the beach to find surf.  When we found our spot, I decided to try to do some boogie boarding.  I paddled out into the giant surf and proceeded to get pounded by wave after wave.  I tried my best to get past the break point but was continually pushed back.  Then, like a wrestler delivering the final crushing move, I was slammed into the ocean floor and rolled like a piece of dirty laundry in a washing machine.  I panicked, fighting for the surface and air.  After what seemed like hours, I finally emerged from the torrent, regained my bearings, and swam to shore to lick my wounds.  I decided to stay with my camera and let them do the surfing from then on. 

The next day we drove solemnly back to the airport in San Jose.  Much of the ride was quiet, everybody taking in the scenery, thinking to themselves.  I imagine the rest of the guys were thinking about emails and meetings already, or how they could possibly figure out a way to stay another day.  Yes, in the most general of terms it was simply a vacation.  But other than a couple of excursions to Mexico, it was my first time out of the states and an introduction to a part of the world so very different than my own.  The Westerners that we met were all people who seemed to want to escape from everything they had come from, wanting to live life on a basic level.  And the Ticos were a kind people, ready to help one find that type of life.  I guess that’s why Costa Rica’s motto is “Pura Vida” – pure life.  

-by A. Givens (WH guestwriter)   

                                 

               

             

Strands of Reef in my Skull and Salty Surf in OC

Salt Creek is a decadent stretch of South Orange County beach nestled in a cove between multimillion promontory houses and the cliffside Hyatt. It’s well-known amongst the OC locals, boasting an oversized metered parking lot leading to an idyllic grass hill ending in a basketball court and a concrete boardwalk parallelling the coast and, of course, a few walkways down to the sand. It has good shape, split into a well-formed left peeling off some reef sticking out from a lifeguard outpost, a middle break wrapping around a point of sand and reef, and a third break that rolls onto the shore, playground for skimboarders and spongers. It’s where all the South OC moms take their kids, trophy wives with fake tits and not an inch of fat on their 30-something bodies with toddlers ambling around the waterline. Fuck, it was even in an episode of "The Real Housewives of Orange County" when that one bitch Laurie, the chick who wears too much makeup and all with the long face, takes her hot little daughter and her derelict son for a family beach day. But the problem with it being well-known and relatively consistent and safe is it’s always crowded. I’ve gone there a few times at dawn patrol and found less than 20 people crowded into the 3 breaks that make up the spot, walking past crazy poseur Hindus doing yoga at sunrise to induce the arrival of Ganesh, my feet stinging as I step into the heavy rocks and kelp that line the icy Pacific water. But more often than not, you find yourself out in the line-up with about 40 or 50 12 to 15-year-olds busting 360’s and backside 180’s on slow-rolling waves. It can be humbling and frustrating and when it gets crowded, like it usually does at such a spot, it can be downright miserable, especially for a bastard like myself who’s only lived here for a year and a half and therefore has no real local claims. The waves just roll in so nice, a little slow maybe but the shape and all – it’s perfect and right at my doorstep, like the milk man who delivers fresh leche to your door every day, so I frequented it quite a bit when I first arrived in Laguna.   Coming from Newport, where I mastered surfing on steep, fast and hollow waves, I felt like I was condemned to spend time in some preternatural oceanic kindergarten where the kids are smarter than myself and try to stop me from learning, like Big Bird on acid throwing gypsy knives at a wheel I was spinning on, although I still prefer it to the other spots when the crowd magically doesn’t appear.

This started to depress me until one day Becca suggested I drive down a little bit more and we found an empty, meter-less parking lot lined with rental condos. At one time this was probably a happening spot but when I first rolled up it was like a ghost spot. In the middle was a grass median and against one wall. You couldn’t see the water because there was a big chain-link fence on the westside with green plastic blocking the view of the water. I thought nothing of this place until Becca and I walked down the 50 or 60 steps, taking turns and all and finding ourselves on the beach just south of Salt Creek.

"Jesus, these waves are almost as good? Why the fuck isn’t anybody out here?" I discovered that whatever this had been was being bastardized, like all corners of the OC, and turned into a multi-million dollar gated oceanfront neighborhood. That was why the view from the lot was gated and covered. The thing is, this gate offers one the chance to feel like some type of derelict, encroaching on forbidden territory by having to look through a few torn corners of the plastic to see how the waves were looking and what was happening.

The first time I paddled out was a little over head high and macking. I paddled out right at the bottom of the ramp. Salt creek was filled with easily 50 people but at this spot were only 2 other surfers, both surly guys in their 30’s. They looked at me with anger, as if I was paying them a horrible disrespect, but I stayed my distance, deferred the good sets to them, and waited my turn. After 10 minutes I was able to drop in on my first good wave at Strands. It had amazing shape, pushing smooth left, but it had an added level of complication I’d never seen in a previous spot. At the bottom of the wave, the water sucked out and the reef below poked above the water. I carved a quick frontside turn and hung higher on the face, just dodging the rock. This was my first lesson about strands. The reason it’s not crowded is that it’s lined with gnarly reef rock. You can even tell how low it is by how much of the shorebreak rock you see.

This became my favorite local spot. When Luke came down to visit, we partied so hard with Coleman in CDM that the next day we couldn’t walk until afternoon but around 1 we paddled out for a surf. Coming back in 3 hours later, our arms like jello and our backs and faces sunburnt, we finally felt like real human beings again. When Randy and Kimbo first visited, Kimbo slept on the floor all day while Randy and I went out to surf it at lowtide. A few times I watched in horror as I literally rode a few inches above reef rock and when I came in I found a huge gash on the underside of my board.

So as I walked out the other day, I noticed the shorebreak rocks were poking up pretty heavy and snapped a pic with my waterproof GoPro camera strapped onto my wrist. I would have to be careful. As I walked down, I looked to my left. The asses of Orange County girls stared back at me, perfect little mounds of flesh ranging from vanilla to café. The problem with the OC is that every woman tries to look 20. This means that every 15 year girl tries to look older and every 28-year-old tries to do the same and they’re all so committed to the deception that they all look 20. A trouble when a crowd of hot young nubiles with perfect asses, well-coiffed hair, and small bikinis eye you walking to the water. You don’t know whether looking is permissible or perverted. I decided to walk a little south of the heavy reefs, where a couple other bros were, and paddled out. I stepped over reef rock in the shallows with my leathery soles, made that way from nearly year-round barefoot weather. The surf was falling, it being 2:30 and the negative low being 5 but fuck it, it’s always nice to get out. Surfing is a religious experience, communing with nature for those of us who seem to spend our lives trying to survive based on a system that’s so unnatural. I am a man who loves being out there, the sun reflecting off the water dripping from my short hair, staring out to the nothing.

As for scenes, this spot is fucking unbeatable.  To the north is the cliff with the Hyatt, then the next promontory and the rest of the coast. You can see the point of south Salt Creek and all the fuckers packed into the line-up at Salty. To the south is one more enormous cliff, the line-up thrown into the middle of a cove that makes one feel like they’re in Hawaii. Rolling green hills in all direction, it’s fucking mind-blowing. I live in paradise, the most amazing naturally beautiful corner of SoCal even if we’re far from any decent bars.

I dropped into a few sloppy lefts. There’s enough for everybody in the lineup to get their fill, not even a tenth of the crowd at Salt Creek. I take a right backside, smack off the lip almost following an irregular break like it’s a floater, but eat it coming off the curl, holding my hands out to keep from slamming my head into reef.

After a fun surf, just a few of us on good waist-high waves with the occasional shoulder set. I surfed until I was done, happy and refreshed; until all my problems had reorganized themselves or simply dripped away. Fucking strands, gnarly reef but good uncrowded surf. The danger – no, the thrill’s worth the isolation.

So as you move on in your adventures and your life, there’s one thing I hope you learn – the thrill’s worth the isolation and the further you get from the crowd, the better the reward. And don’t blow Strands up – every other fucking spot in the OC is as crowded as an American Idol tryout. Goddamn gapers.

Silverback in My Blood (pops part 2)

(Continued from Surfing for Pops )

Two days later, I sat in the same line up, with my pops, who'd flown in only a few hours before. I picked him up outside the Kona Airport, as he was finishing the final pages of Anna Karenina (sic), still wearing his Baltimore outfit of slacks and a shirt, jacket tucked under his arm. He'd flown some 12 hours, on two flights, to reach the tarmac arrival area, and step out into the mild Kona warmth. My, dad is about 5' 9" and slightly round, with a mustache, and happy smile. He stands as an interesting blend of life experience and personal history: a war vet, former hippie, one-time Reagan-supporter, upper-middle-class family man, displaced family man (a crazy time of job-loss), and ever-valiant Husband and father, to my mom, sister, and I. He was always, and still is 5'9"though, so I’ve got three inches on him, as does my mom, and sister’s taller by inch too. He's used to looking up to hug his family.

After a quick bag drop-off at the house - catching up quickly on family, politics, finances - we wasted no time in heading to makai to Pine Tree's Café, for a bite of ono local grindz. Pine Tree's is a glorious gift of mana from heaven, disguised as high-ceilinged, polished metal-style, local miracle of food production. The fare can best be judged by just one day’s specials:

Pork watercress stir-fry, Indonesian chicken w/ peanut sauce, fresh-caught salmon w/ mango chutney sauce, tofu salad, mahi or ono salad with vinaigrette, Reuben sandwich with Fries or Salad, Ono or salmon poke, Chicken salad sandwich with seafood chowder, t-bone with shrimp and potatoes, rib-eye with grilled mushroom and onions, Chicken Long rice, Lomi Salmon, and short rib mix plate…

I won't even list them all, because it will just make your mouth water too much. Point is, Pops' first meal was the most authentic Kalua Pig-Cabbage, Lomi Salmon, and Teri Chicken Mix Plate in town, complete with two-scoop rice and mac salad. Sooo dank. I stuck with my grilled Mahi sandwich, deluxe, w/ Swiss, which combined with Mai Ploy sauce, and a touch of Sirirachi, is a legend in its own right. We decided to follow our $18-dollar island meal with a surf trip up Queen Ka’ahumanu Highway just north of Pine Trees (a restaurant and a surf spot), to the fabled Mahaiulas. Our timing was oddly parallel to my earlier trip that week with Gena, just approaching 5pm. The slow sun was partially shaded by the vog caused by Kilauea’s current flow, some 80 miles to our east.

As we bumbled down the lava road, I couldn't help but think that Regina was 28 when her dad got sick, and 29 when she said goodbye; I was currently 27. I looked at my dad, and wondered about his health. Seemed like a strong fucker, fluffy gray body hair and all, and most of his head hair. By the looks of it, I have Silverback in my blood. Hmmm. But he swore to his good health, didn’t drink or smoke, and played racquetball regularly. Am I delusional to think that when I am in my 50’s, I will have no belly? We shall see. I do eat like some rabid, opportunistic animal sometimes, maybe a squirrel, or our now-local mongooses. If my metabolism ever slows, I could be in trouble. Still, my dad donned his new, mesh-lined, but orchid-print black and white board shorts, and prepared to enter the warm central Pacific with his son.

I was still blue boarding, and pops ended up on the old pink Morey Boogie board our old female roommate had left behind. We fitted some of my fins on his wide feet, and together we were a motley family duo, him East-Coast-winter white, and me with my tourist board, and sporting some surf shades a tourist had left with me upon his departure. The vog kept the sea from sparkling, but it still had the sea-green (literally, like the crayon) of Hawaiian waters. We hit the water via the small sand entry, and started toward my favorite spit of lava to see what we could find.

I wonder sometimes if I have been so fortunate with the whole family situation for some reason, or if all that shit is chance. Whether someday, I too will learn the lesson of early family death, or somehow become a victim of life’s ends and view the perceived tragedy from some higher plane. There doesn't seem to be much logic to who, when or how, but I could say nearly half my friends have experienced some sort of close family member death. With no order or reason people I care about lost people they care about to the whole spectrum of grand finales, which most of us know will come to us eventually.

You wonder if it is a matter of fate, choice, luck, chance. You know, can you only be so lucky so long, and then tragedy has to strike? Of course there is no for-sure answer, but is it morbid to think about such troublesome things I think not, as they are clearly a part of our life, a potentially deeper part of our life: how we deal with death. For now we were fully alive, on another adventure to a once strange land, packing it in for the time being.

After settling in just outside the impact zone, just days before, Regina and I watched the waves shape up, clean up, a bit, and start forming into predictable cascades from the marker rock crumbling steadily east and south as they rolled over the bathymetry below. By the time I got bear to the take-off area, overzealous with excitement, I immediately turned and caught a little peaker just after it started breaking. The joy of Mahaiulas is it is a very forgiving wave- though I was late, the face of the wave hung just back of breaking fully for an extra moment as I got out in front and looked for a bottom turn.

The wave allowed me sweep through the bottom, and back up to the top portion for a slightly accelerated second section, dropping down again. As the wave shifts over a deep spot a surfer can turn back toward the left for a spell, and then back right for a clean, soft, nose-experimenting, section. As I finally hit the channel, I could only look at the sky with my arms out as the board began to sink. I back dove with glee into the water, and came up to see Regina on the next wave, planning along right ahead of the whitewash, grinning slightly. Suffice it to say, it was a blessed moment. We spent the rest of the afternoon, right up to the last pink of sunset, trading twenty second rides on the most pleasant surges on the pacific, a perfect celebration to her family..

Somehow, this Sunday, with my father was turning out much the same, not in terms of memorial, but swell conditions. One other rider and I chatted sporadically as the swell just began to pick up. The same evening calm was starting to settle as the 30 something long boarding dude and I waited and positioned for the next set. By random coincidence, his family lived in Baltimore, and he went to Lewis and Clark in Portland, OR. Fucking tiny world. We thought we saw something on the horizon, and lo and frickin’ behold the point started to pick up. Just a little at first, and then those swells that you can actually see outside, and try and predict exactly where they'll break. I ended up in the right spot for one, and paddled forward a few times before the mellow but solid face picked up my tail and sent me off, pop, stand, yeah, slicing and dicing, or at least it felt that way. I knew the wave was probably only a four-foot face, but it was fun, and I instinctually hoped my dad was watching. He'd never seen me surf, but asked about it regularly. His favorite story, of course, was the board-breaking double-overhead day where I abandoned all pride and actually yelled for help, before getting out of the break zone. I came into the channel, and finally caught sight of him some 100-feet toward shore, kicking his AARP ass away and making slow, but steady progress. I gave him thumbs up, and waited for his return. For a moment, I actually worried about him. What if he had a heart attack, or somehow swallowed some water due to fatigue. The notion was odd to me, as, most of my life, he'd been the worrier, the one concerned for my safety. I have to say it was the first time I wanted to make sure I was responsible with him, as his tour guide, and surf-instructor. Funny stuff, and he was probably more capable than my fears presumed. He'd grown up in Long Beach, in the seventies, and bodysurfed and boogie-boarded for years on his way home from work at the LB post office. I saw the pictures-my hippie-ass parents used to hike, and run 10K's, and eat veggie-style meals more wholesome and real than all the fake Wal-Mart Natural bullshit or organic riffraff produced by the food giants of today.

But shit, someday I'll be the 60 something, hopefully, and look back at the good old days of aught eight, and how good we had it back then. I got a little sentimental and said a prayer thanking God for my pops. I had said a prayer after my best wave the Friday before, but thanking God for my life, and for Gena's Dad sending us such fun waves to play in. I started paddling out to wait for the next set, hoping pops was getting the same vicarious satisfaction that he got through high school soccer and wrestling so many years before. I looked back to check on him one more time, and then looked out to the horizon for the next wave.

Surfing for Pops

Surfing for Pops,

It was pretty chopped out, really, both with big blobs of water, and tiny ripples across their surface caused by the onshore winds. We’d already stopped at Kiholo Bay, and decided against the blown out, low-tide knee-high sets, and continued south to Mahaiula’s. This little slice of paradise was my favorite spot from the very first session six months earlier, and the same was true for my partner in crime Regina, who’d been out only once before to surf, but knew the State Park well. It’s a rough couple miles over a late 1800s pahoehoe lava flow to get down to the parking lot, and then either a long or a short path through the trees to one of two super-simple picnic areas on the crescent of white sand. The whole beach is lined in a small coconut grove, and low shrubs created by the fishponds, and stands out as a little oasis amongst the stretch of black lava on the Kohala coast. There are plenty of beaches in Hawaii, but some just have that innate tropical vibration that makes you realize where you are and smile; Mahaiulas put a grin on both our faces every time.

We parked and wandered down the wide sandy path toward shore, passing the remnants of an ancient fish pond on our left and a grove of Acacia trees on the right. The waves looked small from the highway, but we were determined to paddle out whether or not we caught anything, mostly because we had a specific purpose for stopping here on our way back from Waikoloa up north: to spread some ashes.. Today was her Dad’s 2nd anniversary since succumbing to lung cancer soon after diagnosis, and this was a place he would want to be on such an occasion.

By the time we transfered the boards onto the top of the Xterra and got down to the lower lot, it was 4:20, and we partook as the waves looked disappointingly docile; Wednesday’s swell seemed to have faded. We waxed our boards, stretched, and pushed off the small bit of sandy shore onto our stomachs to start the long paddle out to the long right hand, breaking off a 300 meter point of lava that created the bay. We headed north, me on my only remaining board after a breakage and a theft, a 8-foot Costco Blue Board, and Gena on her dank 9’ 2” South Point. The south end of the bay was fairly mellow as usual, protected by a barely submerged plateau of pahoehoe to our west.  No waves broke here, but the water sloshed and sloped as we paddled out. We kept our eyes out for rogue swell, but at this point surfing was secondary, the real mission was to spread the remains of her dad, and uncle, matter of fact, in this beautiful, nearly deserted, blue-water bay. The Ziploc bag that her family traveled in lay snug in the pocket of my boardshorts. We rested about halfway out, straddled the boards, and stretched our arms, gazing at our surroundings. Kilauea volcano was smoking on the other side of the island, but the voggy cloud cover did not diminish the power of the place. We spotted only 4 or 5 people at the northern edge of the beach, but were the only people out in the water. A mild but steady Kona wind came in from the west, and the sun shone through in spots, casting its rays upwards through the clouds and down onto the ocean at the same time.

“This looks like a good spot, before we get out too far.”

“Yeah, this is good.” I passed her the Ziploc bag, and slowly maneuvered upwind.

“Yeah, they loved this spot. Especially Mak’s (Makalawena, just to the south), but this whole area.” She said as she looked around at our setting, and removed the first Ziploc bag from the second. She looked at the bag as she reached in.

“Man, you guys are both so missed,” she spoke to her father and uncle. “Your’re here though, aren’t you guys? Of course you are.”

She’d shown me the last picture of them together back in the car, right before diagnosis, and they looked so healthy. Twin Filipino boys, her dad with a 'stache, chillin’ on a couple chairs with Gena in the middle. It was one of those, quicker-than you can think things, first her dad, and then a year later his twin brother. She said her uncle kind of gave up after he lost his brother, and that was that.  I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a parent, or sibling for that matter, and hope I never find out for a long time.  I could sense the unspoken thoughts Gena must have had: Why aren't you here in person!

She faced downwind, and threw some of ashes out over the water, and then shook the rest into the sea. The fine particles caught the wind, and danced away toward shore in a cloud. Some of the denser bits scattered one the surface of the green water, and stayed there, stuck in the surface tension of the sea, drifting slowly away in the infinite combination of ripples. She tucked the bags aside, paused for a moment, and then dove off her board into the clear water, surprising me a bit. Two seconds later, she resurfaced, face to the sky, under the ashes on the water.

“Ah! Now you guys are all around me.” She smiled, pushing her dark hair back, and floating face up.
I was speechless for a moment, overwhelmed by the whole moment. I’d never met either of these men, but I’d know Gena long enough to know that they were important, strong, and good people in her life. They had Big Island Roots, living in southern Hawaii for decades before massive development had even started. Gena bathed in the spirit of her family, her roots, as Hawaiian people did daily in these same Kona waters. I thought of my father, and my roots, and wondered where I would take him, under the same circumstances. Gena sighed and smiled.

“Ok, then.” She passed me back the baggies, and we continued to paddle to the North, toward the point, and the small islet of rock that marked the middle break zone. It still looked small so we headed to our right, hoping for some inside stuff, when a wave broke near the marker rock. The first set started coming in behind it.

My world surfing map is newborn, but I still offer a theory: Pound for pound, the Big Island offers some of the best year-round surfing opportunity in the world. Here’s my rationale. Obviously Oahu has bigger, more immaculate wave-making power, and for the cream of the crop, there is only one shore to be on. But for an amateur, much less a beginner, it is a non-issue (there has to be a latin word for that). Not only would the wave do a kookie frosh in, but the no-name may never even make it through the lineup to get in position. I speak, again, not from personal experience, but the simple facts I have gained via dozens upon dozens of video clips, movies, and mag articles: the North Shore is fuckin’ crowded.

The remaining crown jewels in the modern surfing globe are of course, Southern and Central Cali, and Western Oz, both of which seemingly succumb to the same great paradox: the best known waves are the most popularized, and therefore the most crowded waves. Most of us aren’t ready for that shit yet, those Pipeline bombs, or the local hierarchies. And I can’t imagine choosing LA or Sydney to establish ones' surfing career, as a very small fish in a huge pond. Metropolitan surf zones are less desirable due to sheer population, not to mention water quality. I hear they are cleaning up SoCal, but I still can’t imagine the parts per million of miscellaneous shit in the waters surrounding our great cities, nor can the normal man find the purity of a 2 man line-up in those best-known locales. Further, only below the tropic of cancer do surfers live without ever owning a wet suit. The rashy is optional, and the water is clean and clear.

There aren’t so many people on this Big Island, my new homeland in the Pacific, only some 150,000, around 37 per square mile. The best known breaks in Kona - Banyans, Lymans, Kahaluu - max out at 25 people between 2 wave options; not solo-surfing, but still manageable if you are patient and decent. Our first advantage that must be mentioned is our shear size, larger in square miles than all the other islands combined, and probably close as far as miles of surfable coastline. Top to bottom, left to right, there are few places with more than our nearly 400 miles of coastline. Hawaii surf books boast some 47 surf spots, clearly unable to count every surfable break on the Isle. From Pine Trees on the far west end of Keahole Point, to Cape Kumukahi on the east point of Puna, and from Upolu up North, down to South Point, the whole island is exposed to some sort of swell. The furthest an epic swell can be from any point on the island is three hours, so a truly dedicated rider can track and chase the results of every storm, no matter its angle of attack. I can’t even say how many times I have seen massive orange and red blobs crash into the east side, while only the tiniest remnant s show in Kona or Kohala on the west side. Were it in my nature and capacity, I could be in Hilo in 2.5 hours riding at Richardson’s, or Milioli’I, but gas is high, and I have a job and a girlfriend. Just as often, North Pacific lows send a shot of energy from the NW, yet we’re stuck in the wave shadow of Oahu and Maui. Even though I rarely venture more than 0 minutes, I am able to ride at least 4 days a week, most weeks, at one of four West side breaks.

And despite the fact that we are 2500 miles from mainland, Hawaii still has all the amenities of modern living, making it, in my opinion, the perfect balance of tropical seclusion, and basic consumer options.  I can go to my job at the Hilton up north and earn enough to save a little, and then take my truck to a nearly hidden swath of white amongst the expanse of black lava desert.  Don’t tell anyone about Mahaiula’s by the way, as it has got to be one of the best rights on the Island. It needs a straight winter west, or a solid NW, and nothing really happens until the waves reach 2-3 foot Hawaiian, around shoulder high, but when it delivers, it's worth the wait. They are always relatively thick waves - long period swells break nicely there - but never seem as nasty as some of the reefs at the same size. The water is a deep blue, somewhat opaque, so you’re spared the joy of staring at the misshapen seafloor close below your feet. It is a deeper water break than most of the rest of the pahoehoe and a’a flows that make up the west-side breaks. There are of course plenty of lava heads four feet down, but overall the depth causes the wave to roll, rarely going top to bottom, but still capable of propelling the rider swiftly along the two main sections, and then into the channel. As the swell gets bigger, the wave peaks at an outer reef, and then even has one further, outer break when it’s heaving. Those waves will have to be explored on another day, maybe a story about the first broken board. This afternoon the slightly choppy swell was just starting to peak and topple into over into friendly, fairly smooth rights. We looked at each other in mild amazement at our timing, and paddled toward the inside take-off area.

Continued in Silverback in my Blood

Encinitas: Surf, Drinks, and Debauchery

So I decided to roll down to Encinitas this weekend to visit two of my friends, Randy and Kimbo. Randy and I had planned on catching a quick afternoon surf so after spending my morning fixing a few dings on my boards, I cut out from sunny Orange County a little after 2.

Just a little north of San Clemente the 5 dipped into a thick fog that blocked out the sun and the beach and the rolling open hills of south coastal Orange County so that it felt like some horror movie cliché descending into some other realm populated by the Lost Boys and the American Werewolf from London. The temperature dipped to 55 degrees in the cloud and I was more than a little worried about our sunset surf session. I wondered if the marines in Pendleton could see anything and momentarily the vision of a misplaced mortar round blowing us off the freeway flashed before my eyes. When I found my way in Oceanside and the fog opening up a little bit I called Randy.

"What’s up cuz?"

"I’m in Oceanside. Are we still gonna be able to go out with this fog?"

"What fog?"

"It’s dense here and like 50 degrees."

"Really? It’s bluebird here."

"Right on, I guess it clears up a little south. Alright, I’ll see you in a few."

I continued past Oceanside, into Carlsbad which was still pretty socked in. But it slowly lifted and soon I found myself in south Encinitas, driving up a tree-lined hill with just a few clouds in the sky, en route to my high school buddy’s new house. As I pulled up I saw him walking his dog outside, a large blonde lab, and I waved to the duo on the sidewalk as I cruised by and pulled into a parking spot on a side street.

As I walked up to the house, a nice brown townhouse just east of the 5 in Encinitas, Randy and his pooch Finley came over to greet me. Finley started jumping around in epic fits of energy, biting me playfully on my forearm and drilling his head into my crotch and I thought to myself I must note for the future that a dog gnawing my wrist at the beginning of any experience is usually an accepted harbinger of doom – or at least slight foreboding.

Regardless, I walked in with the two and greeted Randy’s roommate Kimbo, another friend of mine from long times past - ten years, I should say (good God can it really be that long?). He looked like he might have been waking up from a nap, wearing sweatclothes and sipping on a Sierra Nevada. He offered me a beer but with Randy and I heading out to surf, I politely declined. I got a quick tour, with the downstairs made up of a comfortable little living room with a patio perfect for smoking cigarettes and the such, leading into a little dining room and a kitchen with a bathroom at the end of it. Upstairs were three bedrooms, a perfect California bachelor house and it was good to see that one of my friends had proven that it’s possible to buy something in California before hitting middle age.

I threw my board and wetsuit into Randy’s big white Tundra and he drove us West and slightly north on PCH, all of a sudden finding ourselves thrust back into the fog. He had said we should hit up a nice spot called Beacons but when we got there and pulled into the cliff parking lot, I saw surfer after surfer coming up the steps and throwing their gear into their cars. We went to the top of the cliff and could hardly make out the shorebreak much less the lineup. We just had no idea how it was and the visibility seemed to be dropping every minute. We asked a young surfer bro, dripping wet and fresh from the water, how it was.

"Uh, it’s pretty good size but I don’t know, this fog just rolled in and it’s hard to see." We thanked him, changed into our wet suits and booties, and began the trail snaking down the side of the sandy cliff. I had brought a neat little toy, a small waterproof digital camera that attached to your wrist which my parents had bought me for Christmas called the GoPro and I decided to bring it as a test drive. We got out to the beach and even there we couldn’t see out to the lineup and it was a little disconcerting to think we were about to go paddling out into cold seas with overhead waves that we couldn’t see.

 

Our first few steps out on to the rocks of the shallows and I still couldn’t see a thing. It was a 50-yard paddle through some small shorebreak and I was already cold when I took my first frigid duckdive and felt my shaved head freeze for about 10 seconds. Soon I broke through to a point where I could see a few guys lined up still 30 yards out. I also caught my first glimpse of the surf – big boxy 6 to 7 footers, breaking heavy and rolling in. We duck dived a few more, just around which time I began to notice my paddling wasn’t moving me anywhere. Maybe it was that the ding repair I had just performed on my board was shitty and slowing me down, maybe it was my old booties holding water and slowing me down, or maybe it was just that I hadn’t surfed for 2 months and was out of shape. Either way, I began to notice Randy was passing me as a set of 3 decent-sized mackers was coming in. It’s a scary feeling when you’re just short of the lineup, the waves are coming hard, and you don’t think you have anything left in your arms. You go through a moment when you picture getting sucked under, drilled down by a wave and sucked around, a rag doll floating in ground zero. Instead I started pulling hard, grinding out every foot until finally the water calmed and I found myself strolling up to the lineup. Between deep breaths I turned to Randy and called out "2 months". He laughed.

The session ended up being a bit of a waste. The waves were walling up and closing out and because of the fog it was hard to tell what was on the horizon. We couldn’t see the beach and Randy even mentioned that for all we knew we had floated down to Moonlight. And the waves were painfully inconsistent – I’m not sure whether it was the distortion of the fog or just the swell but I couldn’t judge to save my life. Two waves would roll in looking the same but where one would just rear up and become a 7 foot behemoth that breaks on your head and throws you and your board through the grinder, the other would fizzle out and break 8 yards in from the lineup. I was getting frustrated and cold and it seemed that every wave I turned on went nowhere and every wave I duckdived might have been rideable if I wasn’t so off. I took a couple pics in the lineup and then I thought I heard Randy calling me. I didn’t want to be out there by myself with a bunch of strangers who might lose me if I floated away and it wasn’t very fun anyway – so why stay out?

I began paddling in and soon found myself eerily alone, in a place where I couldn’t see the lineup or the beach and thought that if I got wrecked here, nobody would know. Finally I caught a small lapper into the shore where I got out and took a few pictures of the beach, the cliffs, and the surrounding fog permeating the whole environment.

At the top of the trail I discovered Randy hadn’t called me and I stood there by myself for about a minute before I spotted him walking on the beach, his 6’3" fish under his arm, and waved to him from up on the cliff. I struggled through sore, cold arm muscles to peel off my booties and my wetsuit. Randy got up and we changed out of our wet gear, climbed into the truck, and drove over to Oggi’s pizza for the Patriots/Jacksonville game.

There we had a dinner of a few pitchers of beer followed with a couple wings as the possibility of Jacksonville’s victory waned and Boston cemented their dominance on the march into history. Kimbo met up with us, rocking out an old school puma jacket, ever the man of hipster fashion, and we had a final pitcher until the game was over and I was feeling a little soused. Randy drove us back to his place where I unloaded my gear, snagged some clothes from my truck, showered, and was ready for some sustenance, some further drinks, and good people.

Kimbo made me a money bloody mary from mixture as thick as pasta sauce so it took more alcohol to thin it to a perfect level. I gave Randy a few old TGR DVD’s that he threw on and introduced a crowd of local Big Bear snowboarders and skiers to epic Teton-fueled big mountain shit. We discussed the difference between the local mountains and greater mountains like Tahoe and Jackson Hole and even Mammoth. It was refreshing to hang out with a couple Californians who talk about snowboarding more than they talk about movie. I felt like I was looking forward to a pretty heavy night.

We had a few more beers before I decided to make myself a gin and tonic, possibly overloading on the gin in my drunken state, but enjoying the revelry all the same. We all finished our drinks and headed to the first bar, Yogi’s. A Pacific Beach bar for people in their mid-to-late 20’s and up in North San Diego County, I had been there once before when it was in Cardiff, just down the street from my old aunt and uncle’s. When we arrived we started with a few drinks, a few laughs, and eyed the bar for hot young girls willing to spend time with my single friends. When a man is in a state of constant commitment, it’s somewhat refreshing to run around with a crowd of friends who are still on the hunt. And if we make that happen for them, it’s the closest to being back on the hunt for me. So as a good respectable wing man, I did a lap with Randy, then started seeking out crowds of party girls just looking for a good, respectable time with some wealthy La Jolla realtors on their way to junior partner at 26. I also drank more as I went along, to the point that I went up to a crowd of girls and, when the girl who apparently I ‘d been talking to dismissed me with a curt flick of her wrist, called her a rather rude name before turning around and walking back into my group of friends. They were laughing at me stumbling around like a crazy drunken buffoon on a fool’s errand. By now it was fuzzy but I still remember a few scenes. I remember a short bouncer, a small little freak with angry eyes and gelled hair, coming up to me and telling me I was out. I looked down at him and apparently my incredulous stare intimidated him or at least made him question his moves because he quickly told me I could stay, just to keep it in line.

I must say that there are few things in this world that irritate me more than short stocky bouncers. Usually they suffer from an epic Napoleon’s complex and it’s this constant and neverending march towards proving themselves masculine in a tall man’s world that spawns a tough-guy attitude unable to be backed up by any actual physical ability. Compound this with arms overinflated from regular andro cycles, a Small t-shirt which hugs those muscles to make them feel even tougher, and hair that’s usually heavily gelled and manicured and you have a combustible ball of insecurity whose only jollies in life are exerting his "power" in kicking the regular-sized folks out of lame wanna-be dance clubs.

Next thing I remember is being forced out. Apparently the story was that a bouncer continually asked Randy to move out of the way as he ran through in different directions, eventually to the point that Randy asked him if he really needed Randy to move or was just trying to be a jerk. The guy kicked Randy out and then the rest of our group followed in suit. I don’t remember any of this. All I remember was noticing the short guy behind me, forcing me out, feeling like a big man, protecting the bar . . .

And then completely out of the blue I spun around and in a haymaker of a hook I clocked the diminutive dance club rent-a-cop, knocking him down on the ground in a crumpled heap of shock. Immediately the rest of the bouncers jumped on me and dragged me out, throwing me down and pinning me on the parking lot. I was probably yelling some rude things to them, as I tend to do when under attack by puffed up security guards in tight black tees. I can’t remember much more – supposedly the owner came out and told us to leave and just come back tomorrow and that was it. I guess in retrospect it was very cool of him to not call the cops and the next day all my friends told me that the owner’s real cool, it’s just that the bouncers are all dicks.

Afterwards, apparently we went to The Office, a nice little local dive bar I’d been to once before with cheap drinks, a foosball table and a pool table for the derelicts who preferred that environment to the unnecessary sensory overload of a half-assed dance club. I passed out in a corner table but they didn’t mind and in fact the rest of my friends stayed there drinking until it was closing time.

The next day I woke up in the third bedroom of Randy’s house. He told me the night before I had crawled upstairs and crashed on his dog bed before he helped me up into the vacant room and threw me onto the mattress. I stumbled down the stairs, still a bit drunk. Down there one of the guys from our group was asleep on a couch and the floor was strewn with large splinters from a piece of firewood Finley had pulled out of the extinguished fireplace. Apparently the wild animal had gnawed it all night long, as well as the expensive cowboy boots of the guy who had been sleeping on the couch, and so the living room resembled a barn that the night before had been the location of a dirty little drinking fest.

Me Randy and Kimbo decided to go out for breakfast, driving down to the parking lot next to the Encinitas train stop, just down the block from the La Paloma where I had hosted a surf premiere all those years before. I threw up once before leaving the house and once again after we parked, but I was already starting to feel slightly better. We stopped in G Street first, hoping for breakfast and Mimosas while watching the first half of the Chargers game but ended up having to go down the street rather than fight the crowd, which looked remarkably similar to the same crowd that had been running around Yogi’s the night before. Instead we walked down the street to a little café serving omelets and burgers alike as I struggled to push food into my nauseous stomach. Afterwards we rolled back to watch the Chargers finish their nail-biter victory over Indianapolis, the bastards who not only stole Baltimore’s team but stole its name and its records (at least we left the name "The Browns" to cleveland when we took their football team). Becca called me –she had been in Santa Barbara the night before and her wine-tasting trip had ended with some rotten bad luck and health problems. For the whole scoop, check back on Thursday to read the whole scoop on her wine-drenched girls’ weekend in Santa Barbara and its weird twist at the end.

After the game, I said my final goodbyes, threw my surf gear back into my pickup truck, and packed up the rest of my stuff to cut out. It had been a good afternoon and evening of camaraderie in good ole Encinitas, California. Surfing at Beacons to beer and wings at Oggi’s to bloody Marys at Randy and Kimbo’s to drinking and depravity at Yogi’s to passing out at the Office to waking up to breakfast around the La Paloma on S. Coastal Highway to a Chargers victory. Now came the blessed time to go home, relax, and fight the last reaches of the hangover by puffing a little from Katrina before settling into a Sunday sunset over the Catalinas at home in Laguna Niguel. God Bless Southern California.