Pleasure Point, circa 2007. The “Good Old Days.” Photo courtesy of the author.
When I first discovered surfing in my hometown of Santa Cruz, I would always hear the older surfers talking about “back in the day.” I’d catch bits and pieces of these nostalgic conversations while sitting in the lineup or working my shifts at a local surf shop. These conversations would often have a common thread. They would reminisce about better times for surfing: less crowds, less kooks, no forecasting, better waves, more adventure, more fun, etc. Surfing was always portrayed in a better light in the past, as if it were now stale bread past its expiration date and I was born just a generation, or two, too late.
After spending the last 13 years living in Southern California (with a couple stints abroad), I’ve recently returned to living in Santa Cruz. In many ways, things are just as I left them – chilly winter morning surfs, frolicking sea otters, and pesky clumps of kelp that render some spots unsurfable at low tide. But I also can’t help but notice that things are different, particularly when I paddle out at the wave that ushered me into the sport over a decade ago, Pleasure Point. As I bob in the water waiting for a wave, I catch my unvocalized, inner thoughts sounding a lot like those ‘old timers’ who complain about change and preach their nostalgic memories of the past.
When I was 15, I would paddle out to “the Point’s” more forgivable “Second Peak” and admire those who were surfing the breaks at the top – “First Peak” and “Sewers.” There was a very defined hierarchy of skill level between the various peaks. I wouldn’t dare venture over to those more advanced areas. I’d look for the sets swinging wide, or pray that someone fell from the takeoff at First Peak. I was terrified of what might happen if, god forbid, I got in the way of one of the good surfers. And this clear division of talent, largely a result of Santa Cruz’s notorious localism in the past, is nothing new. In fact, those who came before me surfed an even more extreme version of the Point (Santa Cruz local CJ Nelson explains it pretty well in this podcast). It wasn’t until I had a year or two more experience under my belt that I felt confident to surf the more advanced takeoff zones.
For whatever reason, whether you want to blame COVID, Costco, or the Olympics, the defined separation of skill at Pleasure Point has become blurred. There are longboarders taking off above the shortboarders at the top of the peak, beginners on soft-tops trying to shoulder hop, and people on what appears to be their first day shortboarding trying to navigate the slabby, shallow takeoff zone at Sewers. Skill levels range from semi-pros to people who can’t control their boards. I discovered this the hard way as an out of control longboarder – resembling a runaway big rig without brakes – ran over my rail and left me with a $100, six-inch gash in my board. A few weeks later a different longboarder tossed his board into the white wash of a wave I was riding. Now I am watching YouTube videos of how to repair a fin box.
For those who’re old enough to remember (I’m 31), there used to be a natural filter of talent at Pleasure Point before you even entered the water. The main entry point to paddle out was a slippery, steep, dirt trail up the side of the 30-foot cliff held in place by several tiers of janky wood planks, metal rods, bricks, and patchwork tracks of cement. The delicate, dirt cliff was bare with green grass edging out on its boundaries before plunging down to the rocky shoreline below. Ropes dangled to aid traversing the slick surfaces and obstacles. Anyone who wasn’t up for the challenge, or able to nimbly navigate a cliff trail with a board in tow, automatically had to look elsewhere to surf or make the long, arduous paddle from Jack O’Neill’s house off 36th street.
But right around the time I left town for college in SoCal, the city cemented over a half-mile stretch of the brittle cliffs on Pleasure Point to protect the houses and pathways that had head-scratchingly been built on the edge of the ever-eroding precipices. They built a proper cement, anti-slip stair-case at the point complete with handrails and even a public bathroom at the top. It made the wave far more accessible to anyone who could pick up a surfboard.
The wave itself is still how I remembered it. It has a relatively mellow take-off that breaks alongside a particular boil. The wave’s long, sloping lines – which often make you wish you had more foam than you do – follow the contour of the coast until they lose steam in deeper water. These days when I paddle out I’m perhaps the most unlocal local in the lineup. Aside from the occasional run in with an old acquaintance, few people know me. On a recent Saturday morning session at Pleasure Point, an older guy – who I’m quite sure is, ironically, not originally from the area – was outwardly moaning about the lack of “regulars” in the lineup.
I didn’t have to ask to know that I was not part of the “in” crowd in his eyes. Now there is a whole new pack of groms who were probably born in the years since I left town. They look at me with stares that ponder if they can or can’t skip me in the rotation. The innate, soon-to-blossom, crusty old surfer in me who was conditioned by old timers to lament about change and reminisce about the past, is tempted to tell those kids about the good ol’ days. Those days when the trail to Pleasure Point was a precarious mudslide on rainy days, when the hierarchy among the different peaks was stark.
But I don’t say a word. I don’t feel passionate enough about the topic to blurt out rants and lectures about the past. While I certainly feel nostalgic for the memories I forged here during different times, I can’t decide how I truly feel about the change. When I dig deep inside myself, looking for that disdain that surfers are supposed to feel when their local spot becomes something that it wasn’t, it just isn’t there. Should I feel upset about this change? Happy? Sad? Triggered? Depressed? The deep search inside me leads mainly to just indifference.
I see the change and the resulting effects, for better and worse. On a positive note, the Point is undoubtedly more accessible for those older surfers who couldn’t risk the old trail, or for the few surfers with disabilities. The lineup is becoming much more diverse with women and people of color. (Sometimes I am embarrassed by how unrepresentative a California surfing lineup is of the diverse range of people in the state.) There is also exponentially less localism, which I’m not opposed to. But on the negative side, the Point often gets filled beyond capacity and is inherently more dangerous. A local ding repair guy corroborated that observation with the amount of damaged boards coming in. And it’s a bit sad to watch a once-natural headland gradually get engulfed in a casket of asphalt, cement, and rebar.
I suppose it’s only natural that I reminisce about the days when I would paddle out at Pleasure Point every Tuesday after school, rain or shine, waves or not, to participate in my high school surf team practices. My sessions on that reef formed the basis for everything I later learned about surfing. But those days are gone. Should I feel angry for what was lost? Motivated to restore it to its old form? Stoked for the progress, increased accessibility, and oceanfront homeowners who can now sleep well at night? It’s hard to say. Regardless, I find myself just… accepting it for what it is. Still, when I paddle out at Pleasure Point and look back at the cliff bluff, I can’t help but picture the previously bare, eroding cliff with 15-year-old me and my friends holding on to that dangling rope before entering the strictly stratified lineup. Maybe one day, I’ll share my stories about back in the day too – if anyone wants to listen.
