Monday morning of Lincoln’s birthday: which initially I mistook for a holiday from class and decided to spend it as such anyway.
Rolling Stones blaring,I sped to the coast to get a surf session in before class. Reaching the beach by a foggy, 10 a.m., I parked on the side of the highway and made the mile long walk, avoiding the $5 fee at the toll booth.
There was hardly 30 foot visability through the morning fog, I couldn’t tell if I was the only person on the beach for miles. Birds and seals were the only exception of life in the desolate fog.
I sat and stretched for a while, hoping for at least one other soul to appear in case I am grabbed by the fog and dragged to White Shark land. An old man walked out of the brush and took a seat on the wooden bench near the path. Good enough for me.
I trotted down to the water line and ran through the waist-high water at a snail’s pace, fighting the cold current to make my way to the first beach break.
The first duck dive is always a shocker-the water rushes to my head and takes my breath away before I have to duck again for the next wave.
The waves were bigger than
my last surf attempt, building up to three feet before pouring over, closing out over the shallow sand.
After watching the Drive-thru Carribean dvd I pulled some Donovan-inspired maneuvers, entertaining a woman walking her feline-sized dog. After surfing for an hour or so I made my way back up the road, dodging off the road as obese RV chugged along the country road.
I pulled the key out of its trusty hiding place, unlocked the doors and began the transformation from rubber seal to student.
After peeling off my booties and wetsuit I shut my door and maneuvered my epoxy longboard onto the roof of the Civic.
Stoked to change into some warm clothes I pulled my door handle, but the door was locked. They both were.
“Dammit! Not again!” I yelled to the fog. I am notorious for locking the keys in the car, maxing out my AAA membership benefits each year.
So there I was-shivering on the side of the highway in my bikini. Since time traveling was not yet discovered, I walked to the nearest lodge and spa to use their phone.
The guy at the desk dialed the number and didn’t ask any questions. He did not happen to offer a blanket, either.
Hair dripping wet, sand-covered feet, I walked back through the fog to my car with nothing to do but wait. I lounged across my trunk and back window and prayed for the sun to break through.
I was amazed at how many people drove past without offering help. I guess I wasn’t giving off the damsel-in-distress vibe. Closing my eyes, I waited for my knight-in-shiny-tow truck
He happened to be a surfer, we talked about the waves as he jimmied a rubber wedge into the door frame.
“Looks like someone’s done this a lotta times” he observed by the flimsy rubber securing my door.
He used a wire to pop the lock up within minutes, I grabbed my sweatshirt ASAP and headed back into town.
It’s not the wave. It’s the journey.
Rolling Stones blaring,I sped to the coast to get a surf session in before class. Reaching the beach by a foggy, 10 a.m., I parked on the side of the highway and made the mile long walk, avoiding the $5 fee at the toll booth.
There was hardly 30 foot visability through the morning fog, I couldn’t tell if I was the only person on the beach for miles. Birds and seals were the only exception of life in the desolate fog.
I sat and stretched for a while, hoping for at least one other soul to appear in case I am grabbed by the fog and dragged to White Shark land. An old man walked out of the brush and took a seat on the wooden bench near the path. Good enough for me.
I trotted down to the water line and ran through the waist-high water at a snail’s pace, fighting the cold current to make my way to the first beach break.
The first duck dive is always a shocker-the water rushes to my head and takes my breath away before I have to duck again for the next wave.
The waves were bigger than
my last surf attempt, building up to three feet before pouring over, closing out over the shallow sand.After watching the Drive-thru Carribean dvd I pulled some Donovan-inspired maneuvers, entertaining a woman walking her feline-sized dog. After surfing for an hour or so I made my way back up the road, dodging off the road as obese RV chugged along the country road.
I pulled the key out of its trusty hiding place, unlocked the doors and began the transformation from rubber seal to student.
After peeling off my booties and wetsuit I shut my door and maneuvered my epoxy longboard onto the roof of the Civic.
Stoked to change into some warm clothes I pulled my door handle, but the door was locked. They both were.
“Dammit! Not again!” I yelled to the fog. I am notorious for locking the keys in the car, maxing out my AAA membership benefits each year.
So there I was-shivering on the side of the highway in my bikini. Since time traveling was not yet discovered, I walked to the nearest lodge and spa to use their phone.
The guy at the desk dialed the number and didn’t ask any questions. He did not happen to offer a blanket, either.
Hair dripping wet, sand-covered feet, I walked back through the fog to my car with nothing to do but wait. I lounged across my trunk and back window and prayed for the sun to break through.
I was amazed at how many people drove past without offering help. I guess I wasn’t giving off the damsel-in-distress vibe. Closing my eyes, I waited for my knight-in-shiny-tow truck
He happened to be a surfer, we talked about the waves as he jimmied a rubber wedge into the door frame.
“Looks like someone’s done this a lotta times” he observed by the flimsy rubber securing my door.
He used a wire to pop the lock up within minutes, I grabbed my sweatshirt ASAP and headed back into town.
It’s not the wave. It’s the journey.
