It’s always worth the troubles. Photo: Avery Sieg
Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from author Avery Sieg’s upcoming book, Ceramic Antique, set for completion late 2015.
Jake and I awoke on Lincoln Avenue this morning as is routine. Without popping in my contacts lenses it was apparent that heavy layers of fog had repossessed our incandescent days of late like the bank to owners indifferent of their mortgage. Everyone has to pay the fog machine in this city, no questions asked. It was about eight thirty and I pulled the van into the Beach Chalet parking lot so we could profit by their public facilities. We each filled up our gallon jugs of water and dropped bombs next to each other in neighboring stalls. We’re always goofing during the latter. This particular morning I balled up some toilet paper and tossed it over the stall. If Jake doesn’t retaliate, he’ll be spitting some inner monologue out loud in the next stall: “Oh. Hmm. Avery thinks he is pretty funny over there huh? He is clever. Never mind that though, Jake. Gotta get back to work. Big day of work today.” That’s an ongoing joke with Jake and I. We’re always “working really hard “on something. If we’re not “working hard,” we’re on call at all times. Thing is we’re always creating these arbitrary scenarios through our ongoing rhetoric that if overheard by people in passing would probably say these two kids have lost it, no chance. As they very well should say. I don’t know what I would think if I was in the third stall listening to our banter. The third stall in the Chalet has a faulty flusher, so we steer clear of that one. You learn these things.
Anyway we split the Chalet, parked the van in the Ocean Beach parking lot across the street and looked upon the ocean with dismay. The Pacific was alive as ever today and didn’t want any company. The waves were massive and breaking in chaotic incongruence, chopped by a howling wind. There wasn’t a single surfer in the water and we were not about to be the first victims of today’s sinister seas. Jake and I try to surf every day, a minimum of at least one session. Ocean Beach clearly wasn’t an option so we decided to take a drive down to Pacifica and see if we might get lucky. Take a big swell that’s hitting Ocean Beach and drive fifteen minutes south to Pacifica and it’s usually stepped on and much smaller. Neither of us had ever surfed there for this very reason but today was the first time in a while that Ocean Beach actually looked like too much to handle.
I fired up Bertha and we headed south on the Great Highway. The sky was leaden and the ocean was in tempest. Weather like this, although sometimes inebriating my favorite hobby other than writing, does excite me. Sometimes Mother Nature has to slip into those matriarchal shoes and let all us plebes know it’s her turn to deal and if she wants to deal from the bottom, tough shit. I knew a few spots in Pacifica we could check. All of a sudden though, I had a brilliant idea just before entering Pacifica.
“This break is always small and dumpy when I have looked at it,” I said to Jake who sat next to me in the passenger seat of Bertha, eating an apple, shrouded by a mop of natural dreadlocks conceived from years of neglect. Finishing my idea I went on to say, “Let’s not even look at it. Lets go to Santa Cruz.” Jake diligently pondered this proposition, chomping his apple. After a second he spoke, “Well you know, I have like thirty bucks, that’s got to last me on my hitch back to Oregon, too. I can’t pay any gas.” “Well yeah I know. That’s what I’m saying, lets hitch down there. You think we can find a straight place to leave the van for a day or two?” I spat back. I was beginning to feel very excited. I love little hitching trips. “Yeah. We could do that for sure,” Jake replied.
Now we were driving past a couple of hotels that didn’t appear to be very busy and on a whim I hung a quick right off the highway and into a Holiday Inn express parking lot. Getting towed would cost much more than the gas money to get down to Santa Cruz so we had to cogitate on the situation at hand. It came without much effort. I dug around for my journal, a pen, some duct tape and got to it. In a very elegant hand I began a polite declaration: “Car troubles. Broke down this morning. I will return tomorrow morning with a tow. If there is any issues please don’t hesitate to call. I can be reached at ***-***-****. Thank you and have a fine day.” I dated and left my John Hancock on the bottom of the phony note. Jake thought it would check and we started loading up our hiking packs. I packed my sleeping bag, a couple of sweaters for the night and some ramen noodles. We each put our wet suits in our surfboard bags and our “work” was complete. I taped the note on the inside of the driver side window and we made for the highway, the route one south that is.
To Whom It May Concern, Gone Surfin’ Photo: Avery Sieg
There was a stop light where we entered on the one and after that an oblique hill. Jake started trudging up the hill, a purist when it comes to hitch hiking. He always says its called hitch hiking for a reason. Jake holds a strong contempt for those woebegone cats who stand in one place all day with a squalid card board sign with their destination slopped across it.
“Hey Jake, let’s hang on this side of the light for a second,” I said on a whim. “Alright,” he said turning on me, “but we’re going to have to walk this hill anyway.”
The cars stopped for a red, I stuck out old faithful and walked backwards with a goofy grin on my face that said, “Give the ole boy a ride, I’m not a cannibal!” The first line of cars past, staring as they accelerated past us. “Come on baby, let’s get a good ride off the bat,” I thought to myself. Next thing you know, no more than half a minute later a little silver car pulled over on the shoulder. Jake and I smiled at each other and ran over to the car. A cat no older than us rolled down the window and asked us where we were headed. “Santa Cruz.” “Me too, hop in.” I think it was a Saab and we had to maneuver our boards into the little whip deftly. I hopped in the front, Jake behind, veiled by surfboard bags and off we went.
The kid’s name was Clayton, he was nineteen (same age as I) and was on his way back to Santa Cruz from some music festival in the city. I talked a bit with him and told him that we are also coming from SF, bound for Santa Cruz for a swell. Small talked a little more and we were making good time. Clayton drove very well, not going ten miles an hour like some folks do around the twists and turns of the route one which I always imagine was drawn up by an architect who had had fourteen cups of coffee on an empty stomach and couldn’t keep his hand from shaking. Half Moon Bay and Pescadero came and went. Jake sat taciturn in the back seat and at some point I turned around to see why he was so quiet. He was out cold. I have never seen anything like it. Jake could have all the energy in the world, but as soon as he puts on that seat belt and gets comfortable, that’s all she wrote. Clayton noticed me peer back at Jake and he followed in suit, seeing Jake with his head lying limp on his shoulder with his eyes shut.
“Is your friend okay?” he asked cautiously with a hint of that driver of hitch hiker paranoia in his tone. I picked up on his temerity and assuredly said,” Oh, yeah. Don’t worry about him. He loves to sleep in the car. More than anyone I have ever met, actually.”
We were closing in on Davenport when the fog completely lifted and the sky was a crisp azure. I was growing antsy to get out of the car and check the waves at Steamer Lane. Clayton lit a cigarette and I did the same, knowing now it was cool to smoke in the car. Upon entering Santa Cruz Clayton asked where we wanted to be dropped and I asked if he knew where Steamer Lane was. He said no but it turns out his place wasn’t far from West Cliff so I gave him directions to the Lane. We pulled into the parking lot, Jake woke in the back seat looking around and we unloaded our boards thanking Clayton graciously. While we were taking out my board bag, which was the last of our belongings, Clayton asked if we had any money for gas. Jake and I looked at each other and tried not to show a grin. Jake was the first to say, “Sorry man, got no money.” I think I had a few crusty one dollar bills floating around in my pack but opted out of searching.
“Yeah. I don’t have any cash, just my debit card. Sorry man.” I added. “Uh yeah. It’s alright I guess,” Clayton responded somewhat reticently. I pulled out my smokes and said, “Here take a couple of smokes bud.” I handed him three or four, he gave a reluctant thanks and split. Jake and I were laughing when he was gone. “Look at us,” Jake said. Then,” what does he think were hitching for if we want to buy gas.”
Wasting no time we waltzed over to the cliff and perched ourselves in front of the main peak at the Lane. The swell was three to four feet and shoulder high waves were peeling off the rocks. A meager weekday afternoon crowd at Steamer Lane is equivalent to what would be considered extremely crowded at a normal break, so we got on it after only watching for a couple of minutes. Jake and I stashed our belongings in a tree arbor down the road and suited up in the cozy little den. Jake climbed a tree and I passed him our packs and empty board bags. He suspended them and camouflaged them the best he could. We split the arbor, hopped the railing that borders the cliff, walked to the edge and jumped into the water.
It’s been over a year since I surfed at the Lane and it took me all of two, long and walled up rights to remember why this wave is world class. If you’re a golfer the Lane is like hitting the links at Torey Pines. You have to wait your turn and respect the locals, no doubt about that, but getting a few waves at the Lane that connect from The Point or The Slot, all the way through Middle Peak and to where the foam top kooks are bobbing around at Indicators, makes the heavy crowds tolerable.
We surfed into the evening and after a while it was a complete crowd scene with everyone getting off work and the little groms (the ones who aren’t home schooled with five hour recess periods at the Lane everyday) showing up. Jake and I were stoked as we walked back to our shelter for the evening. The sun melted into the Monterey Bay shortly after we changed and cooked some ramen noodles on our propane burner. That night the stars were brilliant and we left the shaded arbor and hopped the railing bordering the cliff across the street and sat, out of the view of passing cars, on a belvedere of those verdant triangular plants that once cracked open leak a glycerin jell. Jake pulled out his bowl and had a toke. I smoked a couple cigarettes and like this we sat under Orion’s belt and myriad other scintillating constellations; listening to the waves beat upon the rock formations below are perch. An extremely placid setting and I may add that words were not necessary.
