“The Pacific itself, the largest ocean, possesses a pulse; a breath and life of its own. I was instantly drawn to its enormity and vastness – an indescribable power.” Image: Roche
California:
Being from the East Coast, there is a quizzical fascination with the West Coast. It seems that time, somehow, is expanded the further westward you travel. Maybe it’s the rich history of success and risk/reward provided by the unknown, which drove masses of people west to conquer their own personal manifest destiny. Maybe it’s the primal nature in all of us to seek something new? A break from the monotony of the norm that still has us focused towards the setting sun.
Raised on westerns starring Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, the rugged image of the west is a place where men were men; stoic, chivalrous and unwavering in their demeanor. It is that image of the lone cowboy against the setting sun that is etched in my mind, the drawing of the western sky. During my recent trip west, I was overcome with the same sense of exploration and discovery that travel evokes – as you chase the sun, experiences and opportunities unfold, each the precursor of knowledge and intrapersonal growth.
These days California (at least Manhattan Beach) lacks cowboys. Horses have been traded for G-Wagons, six shooters for cellphones and the fashion forward LA culture makes it more difficult to distinguish male and female solely based on attire. Surfing off of Rosecrans Ave, the gateway to Compton, Tupac lyrics stream effortlessly through your brain – yet, everyone walks with a deliberate stroll, conscious of the present, yet focused on the future.
The Pacific itself, the largest ocean, possesses a pulse; a breath and life of its own. I was instantly drawn to its enormity and vastness – an indescribable power.
Traveling with my brother, Jack, and close friend, Joe, we were ready for anything. Staying with a good buddy, we were able to get our bearings and lay of the land fairly quickly. With limited transportation available, we set off on foot for our first surf of the trip. Barely crossing PCH with each board intact, we maybe walked a quarter mile when a white pick-up stopped me (spearheading our beach assault). The driver, a friendly born and bred surfer, looked at me and my entourage of two, slightly disheveled from the night before, and calmly said, “You know there are no waves today.” “We’re from the East Coast,” I replied. I prided myself in this statement, being that were always hungry for waves. Wave deprivation keeps you hungry.
The driver offered to drop us off at El Porto, which is where we were heading. As we conversed, he told us a few spots to check, not to go down to the beach as a group, space out the time between entering the water – things “out-of-towners” should know. Grateful of the generosity and hospitality of this Californian, we exchange good-byes. He would’ve surfed with us, but it was none too appealing to a wave-fed local. Gluttony is a deadly sin for a reason.
Waist high with some bigger sets, we were pumped to get in the water. The cobalt clear 58° water of the Pacific was a welcomed change from the sub 40° chocolate brown water of home.
Surfing with my brother is one of my most cherished memories and pastimes. It’s how we grew up and became more than brothers. We became friends through surfing. I wouldn’t want to surf with anyone else. We push each other in the way that only brothers do. While we compete and push, I always have the most fun surfing with Jack. Maybe it’s because of the unconditional support and positivity.
Everyone in the surf community knows First Point Malibu – they know names like Dora, Edwards, Carson the lively characters of the past that created the style and jive that reverberate through time and have modern influences from by surfers like Gamboa, Tyler Warren and the late ’90s/early ’00s generation. Even though Malibu wasn’t breaking when we stopped, the years of surf movies that included First Point were brought into my reality.
The hills and canyons above Malibu were just as appealing as the sea side. We walked among huge cliffs. Every step upward, the vastness and desolation of the Pacific grew and grew. I was amazed to see scatters of family developments perched precariously on the narrow spine of Crystal Canyon. As the sun lowered in the sky, the orange-yellow light bounced off the reddened clay-like texture of the canyons, illuminating the relief between mountains and sea, one flowing effortlessly into the other.
As we navigated down the canyon captivated by the natural beauty, but distracted by the smell of burning brake pads, I noticed cars stopping frequently on the shoulder. As we got on to PCH and headed south, it was evident as more cars filtered off the road creating a narrow parking lot along Pacific Coastal Highway, each was taking time to watch the setting sun – each in the present and set on the future.
“No time to rest. I’m gonna find me a life, baby, way out west.”
– Time to Run, Lord Huron
