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Eventually the wind came up and the
choppy, onshore conditions prevailed. The groomed walls were reduced
to slop as quickly as they had arrived. We changed out of our wetsuits,
ate lunch and laughed at the spontaneous adventure. We had surfed
a spot no one else we knew had ever surfed before in one of the
most heavily surfed counties in California. Few opportunities for
such a gallant quest remain. As we basked in the sun, Lance looked
up at a large clump of sandstone shards perched over the small flat
area we had used to change into our suits. He made an off-hand remark
about how unfortunate it would be to be underneath it when it fell.
I agreed then moved my board away and sat as far from it as possible.
No sooner had I sat back down than Lance suddenly rose up without
a word and dove toward the water. Kyle and Ben then followed as
if on cue while the first small pebbles rained down around us. Then
the whole clump broke free separating into a multitude of sharp,
axe-head shaped shards and landing where we had been sitting moments
before. Ben and Lance’s boards suffered minor dings. Kyles’
board, which was less than a week old, had caught a wedge that pierced
the bottom of his board, cut all the way through the wood stringer,
and come out the deck. The board was ruined.
When the dust cleared it was time
to leave— and fast. We said little as we gathered up our stuff
and headed back. We had plundered the wave garden and overstayed
our welcome. I won’t ever forget that journey, but I feel no
need to return. There are some places that should remain isolated
from mans’ whims. We do not own the coast. We are lucky to
share it with the real locals.
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