It happened about 15 years ago...
It happened about 15 years ago...
It was the late 70s, and I had just driven cross country in a drive-away Mercedes from NYC. Had never been to the left coast and was more than excited about what it had in store in terms of babes, waves and the future.We cruised west, crossing the country in three days in the big-assed Benz, giving us another few days in Cal before having to turn the car in. I was with a college buddy, and we headed straight to Cayucos to visit another friend from our days of beer guzzling, minimal studying, in the rural Adirondack mountains of NY. He was living,s urfing, and happily breeding in that quaint central coast seaside town. I was eyeballing the place wondering if it was where I wanted to set down roots. Frankly, it seemed a bit quaint, too quaint. And anyway, after cracking a case or two of cold ones, we had to head to LA to return the car.
The year, actually, was 1978, the year of the big CA rains. And we headed south one dark and stormy night in the midst of a ferocious downpour. What the fug, it wasn't my car, so I wasn't too worried about flipping it or whatever.
After a few hours of driving, though, we came to a rain-drenched traffic jam on the PCH. Middle of the night, couldn't go back, couldn't go forward, roads washed out both ways. All we could do was crash out in the car.
Woke up to a totally misted car, windows looked frosted from the inside. Stepped outside to the long snaking traffic jam on the PCH to witness one of those clear, crystal post-storm mornings that are about as dramatic as weather transisitons transitions get in California. And then to my right I noticed, stacked to the horizon, perfect 8-foot right hand peelers going off a right point, cranking, spitting, reeling, firing, grinding etc. with no one out. Not a soul.
I thought to myself, Oh God, after years of groveling in cold, mushy, grey, inconsistent East Coast slop, that I was such a fool that here on the west coast the fantasy put out by the magazines was actually an understatement of how good and incredible the surf was. I mean, the proof was in front of my eyes -- I must have been looking at a crappy spot on the coast since there was nary a surfer out, and by the great god almighty, I was witnessing surf of truly incredulous, mind-numbing quality. Who cared about the name places when one could live in Cal and surf spots like this with absolutely no crowds? This was beyond a surfer's Xanadu, beyond a wave rider's Mecca, grander than tube chasers nirvana.
I paddled out. And four about 4 hours, surfed waves that exceeded any sketch on some gremmies notebook. It was the paradigm of perfect.
Finally, another surfer paddled out. Frankly, I was more than glad to see him. I was kind of curious, I wanted to know the name of this place since I had every intention of raising my children there (after meeting whoever was going to be my wife).
The place was a little known spot called Rincon, the other surfer told me, looking at me as if I was fresh from some asylum.
The roads were washed out north and south -- nobody could get in. There were about four of us just catching waves and having a grand old time. The way it was once upon a time, a long long time ago.
Finally, I couldn't paddle anymore. Frankly, my thighs hurt and I couldn't stand anymore. Exhausted, I collapsed on the beach. Moments later, as if a subway train and just pulled up and disgourged a thousand frenzied surfer commuters, the place was overrun. The highway had opened, but I had already lived a fantasy I couldn't have even imagined.
Postscript: I ended up living in San Diego for three years, eventually found that place too quaint, moved back to NYC, but about three months ago, moved back West and now surf in Malibu.