South of LA

A thick marine fog cloaked the palm trees and bluffs, limiting visibility to a few hundred feet.  Nearby traffic hummed on the PCH.  Every few minutes, a hollow sound announced the passing of a liberally muffled motorcycle.  Sitting in the driver's seat of the Syncro with the door open, I watched waves roll in from the grey horizon.   Dozens of  black dots bobbed up and down as the swells past.  Blindly reaching for a bag of pistachios, I tracked a wave pass through an especially dense group of black dots.  A handful started moving towards the shore in anticipation of the wave peeking. Two white streaks went in separate directions.

"Damn, that looks fun. I'm suiting up," I said looking back towards my cousin, Nikko, stretching out in the back seat. "You cool to hang out for a bit?"

"Absolutely," he said, keeping his eyes pealed to, "Travel's With Charlie."

For the sixth time since leaving LA two days earlier,  I grabbed my 3'2 suit and 7'6 Walden Minimagic from the roofrack and raced down the stairs towards the beach.

On Friday morning,  Nikko and I followed the ocean down towards San Diego in the final leg of my exploration of the California Coast.   Despite the areas reputation for constant sun, a San Francisco like fog covered the coast, making the densely developed area feel remote and repetitively uninhabited.  Exploring the numerous parks and surf breaks that separate Mediterranean "mansions,"  supplemented the sections of coast where 1 combines with I5 with residential roads.  Parking the Syncro on sections of road unrestricted by parking laws by night, we joined the thousands of other gypsies taking advantage of the warm climate and reliable waves.

Reef.

Lined up.

Drying a constantly wet towel.

Three feet at 13 seconds.

Limited visibility.

Baywatch.

Black Dots.

Paddling out through the white water, I paused for a second to look back towards the bluffs. Teeth like rows of parked cars some hundred feet above contrasted the gray background, bringing back memories of a foggy Manhattan skyline.

A surfers "Hoot!" brought me back from my day dream, and I paddled with purpose, narrowing avoiding the waves peak.

Here are some more links,

SoCal (Picasa),

Out of Reception.

SoCal

As an Oregonian, I grew up hearing bad things about Southern California.  From an early age,  this one sided rivalry was instilled through osmosis.   Fueled with comments like, "It's a car culture down there; we bike here," and "Go Home To California" stickers on the bumpers' of countless Volvo's, it took little more than a love of a seasonal climate to join the anti-LA bandwagon. Call it blind Nationalism, for I had never stepped foot there.

Five years in the North East, four years in Maine and one in New York, cured me of my fetish for snow and took the luster out of a charming winter day.  Opening up to the idea of Southern California, I planned to explore the area at some point when I started my trip in the beginning of August.

We missed the bulk of LA traffic Wednesday evening, heading into LA along the PCH (Pacific Coastal Highway) from the north.   With constant references to the "Beach Community" depicted in the Big Lebowski, we stopped in Malibu at sunset to check waves and gaze south towards the skyline of LA.  It looked exactly as I expected; clocked in haze and surrounded by suburbs. Pulling back onto the highway, countless Porsches sped by towards an apparent mass family emergency.  "Just as the hippies in Portland had described it," I thought to myself.

A few days of plans turned into nearly two weeks exploring Southern California from Ventura to San Diego.   Using LA as a base, I experienced a place far different from my visual perceptions influenced by but not limited to Terminator 2, Encino Man, China Town, Entourage, Beverly Hills Cop, Pulp Fiction, Boyz in the Hood, Curb Your Enthusiasm and most importantly, the Big Lewbowski.  I avoided the areas with likeness to the Upper East Side of Manhattan,  instead spending my time in grittier places.

Navigating through Silver Lake, Encinatas, Lincoln Heights, and Ventura, I learned to avoid driving at certain times.  Relatively cheap rent, (when compared to NYC), allows people to live life's they couldn't in other large hubs. The food is cheap, the beaches are idyllic and the people nice.  The energy of talented folks in relatively proximity is contagious.  There is a reason that things happen in cities as opposed to on Route 50.

Camp Pendleton.

One if the coolest type 1 VW buses I have seen. San Deigo.

A stones throw from LAX.

Morning light in Ventura.

Preconceived notions are rarely accurate. I'm certainly not ready to park my Syncro here fultime, but consider this acknowledgment of word eating.  It's a place worth experiencing.

All of these photos were shot with film from the Impossible Project, courtesy of Urban Outfitters.

Here are some more links,

Impossible (Picasa).

C Street

"That feels like a square knot," I murmured.  Checking the paracord  securing my fins to my ankles, I dove under an oncoming wall of whitewater.  Emerging on the other side a few moments later, I looked for bubbles on my housing, and started paddling out side stroke towards the peaking waves.

"Good luck," Evan said passing me on his longboard.

"I'll be fine," I grinned. Anticipating a side current I took a different rout from the surfers, paddling hard towards the point as opposed to straight out.

Time to dive.

Different waves.

The business end of an outside set.

Evan.

Building.

This is why I like spending time in the water.  Sunsets.

After forty minutes or so, I finally made it out through the current and on comping waves.  Resting for a moment like a sea otter, I figitted with the controls on the back of my housing.  Aperture and shutter speed clicked with twist of a stainless steel dial. Grinning ear to ear,  I shouted over to Evan.

"I'm glad I got this overnighted."

Here are some more links,

See Beach (Picasa),

Fosterhunting (Twitter).

1 South

Surf trips aren't like other road trips.  Waves are fickle.  Swell direction, wind and and hydrodynamics dictate how they break. When the stars line up, you move slowly.  Driving down the coast, you make frequent stops inspecting the waves, looking at maps and debating before pulling out the boards and the wetsuits. When the waves are bad,  you make up time, speeding along highways to get to another area.  Everything gets sandy and your wetsuits stay wet.

Stopping in San Francisco, Dan and I met up with Nolan, a friend from Maine, and headed south.  Nolan works for Grain, a company that makes wooden surfboards from locally grown cedar trees.  With four days of free time and 470 miles of roads snaking along the coast, we left the Bay Area on Sunday night.  Unlike most of my travels in the last two months, this time we parked at night in open lots and poached campgrounds, leaving before daybreak to avoid fees. Measuring our latitude by the quality of the Mexican restaurants, we headed south towards LA.  Once in the morning and once in the  afternoon we stopped to surf.  All day we searched.

A.M.

"The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." Mark Twain.  This was late September, but you get the picture.

Wet sands.

Empty Road along Big Sur.

Inaccessible.

Get up and go.

White water.

That way.

I pulled the shift lever out of third,  let off the clutch and coasted to a stop on the shoulder of Route 1.  Peering over the out of the passenger's window I turned down the music.

"Damn,  those are huge."

"Ehhh,  I doubt they are rideable.  There's no consistency and the outside sets would fuck you."

"Not to mention, the paddle would be a chore."

"Keep going?" I said shifting into first.

"Keep going."

Here are some more links,

1 South (Picasa).