Day Six

Published by Noserider in the blog Neoprene 'Zine. Views: 599

SANTA CRUZ - SAN FRANCISCO

The microcosm of the rivalry between Northern and Southern California had been played out by two small coastal cities, both of which hovered around the peripherals of major urban areas. In Southern California, outside of Los Angeles, sits the coastal Orange County city of Huntington Beach. Southeast of San Jose, was our current location: Santa Cruz. Why were these towns a microcosm of the instate rivalry? Because both places considered themselves to be--and were dubbed--”Surf City, USA.”

Most surfing purests recognize that Santa Cruz had the legitimate claim if for no other reason that it had been called Surf City since the 1920s when surfers from Hawaii first introduced the sport to the state of California. Huntington Beach has been known as Surf City since only 1991; at the time of Santa Cruz’s Christening as Surf City, Huntington beach was little more than a train station, a pier, and vegetable fields. However, Huntington Beach trademarked the term and is, thus, technically--legally--the true Surf City, but Santa Cruz is, actually--culturally--the real Surf City.

A biased side note here. While Huntington Beach hosts the U.S. Open of Surfing and boasts decent waves year round, everyone knows surfing developed its style--it’s flair, if you will--in Malibu. To me, Malibu has a much more legitimate claim to the Surf City title than Huntington Beach, who wrung the purity from the sport as one wrings out wet laundry, and turned it into aggressive events engaged in, and attended by, surly faced “frat bros,” who wouldn’t be caught dead on a longboard and who had no idea who Miki Dora was. Huntington Beach took something pure and fun, holy even, and turned it into a competition to be profited from. It was all about money, fame, sponsorships, and chasing Kelly Slater into big wave oblivion; it’s where ESPN trained their cameras. If I may be so bold, fuck Huntington Beach. But that’s not what this entry is about.

After a late breakfast downtown, we checked out the famous Santa Cruz boardwalk. If we had arrived a week later, all the attractions would have been closed down during the week. As it was, some rides were closed, but it was still fun to walk around the carnival atmosphere and just enjoy being somewhere different--just enjoy being. But it didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off and we were suddenly done with the boardwalk and on our way to a place we knew in name only: The Mystery Spot. We had no idea what it was, nor any expectations, but we’d heard it was fun, and embraced by locals and tourists alike.

The Mystery Spot is one of those hidden gems of the world. For $5 you get an hour-long activity and a mind-bending puzzle. The downside, you get a free bumper sticker. The Mystery Spot is supposed to be one of those geographical anomalies like the Bermuda Triangle where gravity goes haywire, up is down, down is up, balls roll uphill, and you can tower over someone who is normally taller than you. It’s all an optical illusion, of course, but we didn’t want to overthink it and ruin the fun. However, the place was panic-attack inducing. Illusion or not, my spatial awareness and equilibrium were affected physically, and that was no illusion. I felt a mild sensation of motion sickness. I guess it’s the equivalent of a funhouse. But it was fun and silly, and we had a great time.

The dead surfer’s memorial was surprisingly comforting. While I was expecting something like the memorial to fishermen lost at sea in Gloucester, Massachusetts, the dead surfer’s memorial wasn’t to honor those who died surfing--though some had--but to celebrate the departed surfers who had loved life and waves. It reminded me that I belonged to a distinct subculture and it was one outsiders didn’t understand--they didn’t understand our desire, connection, jargon, or lifestyle, nor the hardwork and dedication it took to become proficient in our chosen endeavor. Sure, we might get a holler of, “Sweet ride!” from a non-surfer, but no one ever said, “your drop knee turns and cutbacks are flawless!”

We reached the end of a point where a surfing museum stood, but it was Tuesday, and the museum was closed, because of course it was. Neoprene-clad surfers--mostly young men--ran past us to the end of rocky point and jumped down into the water. The point separated two drastically different stretches of beach. To the west, our right as we stood facing the water, was Lighthouse Field State Beach, a strip of sand with a small point about a hundred yards or so down the beach that caused the southerly swells to break diagonal to the beach in small rolling waves perfect for longboards and long rides.

Due to the shape of the shoreline, a surfer could paddle out off Lighthouse Field Beach, catch a wave, ride it into the shallows and walk right back to the beach, while surfers on the other side of the point were catching big waves, surfing them until they broke, ending their ride, and still be hundreds of yards offshore, surrounded by cliffs with no easy access to the shore. This is the world famous Steamer Lane, arguably the best surf break in the country.

After pulling my wetsuit on in the parking lot and running back to the point with my board, I stood at a literal oceanic crossroads. To the right, Malibu-esque longboard waves I’ve already since mastered; to the left, swells too big for my "In the Pink" board that would surely cause me to wipeout in breakers big enough to pound me into pudding. The fact that I was hesitating on what to do alarmed Brianna. She give me “the look.”

“I know, I know. I wasn’t really contemplating it,” I lied.

Down on the beach I noticed two fellas surfing offshore. They were good too, real, true longboarders who could walk the deck, ride the nose, and I suppose hang five or ten toes, bros.

They were trimming and stalling, squatting in the curl, walking up and down the length of their massive 10-0 boards on waves clouded and corrupted with impurities and kelp, the dark shape of which stood out against the translucent face of the wave.

I paddled out to join them (I swore one of them was “Wingnut” Weaver based on his style, and was utterly crushed when I got close enough to see that it was, in fact, not Wingnut afterall), caught a couple of decent rides, and packed it in for the day.

We were back on the road and headed north for pizza and wine in San Francisco’s Mission District, and a trip to what turned out to be a not-so-friendly lesbian bar.
scratcho likes this.
You need to be logged in to comment
  1. This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
    By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.
    Dismiss Notice