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Mysto
Point
By
Mike Rowan
I used to think of summer as a long
stretch of flat, foggy days best suited for working and saving some
scratch for a new stick. South swells weren’t something I would
eagerly anticipate before a fateful morning on the west-side of
Santa Cruz. It was June. School was out and I was getting ready
to move back up north until the fall semester. I was sorry to say
goodbye to our house. I had spent the winter a stone’s throw
from Mitchell’s Cove and caught more long peeling rights than
I could have ever imagined. It had been a great winter.
But the doldrums of spring had returned.
At this point my attention was turned towards the prospect of a
carpentry apprenticeship waiting for me back home. I had boxed my
belongings and loaded up the Dodge Dart. I awoke to another gray
dawn and made coffee. Much to my surprise, I found two old friends
from El Norte curled up on barren raised beds in our backyard. I
am an early riser, so I let them sleep while I rousted my housemate.
I had to play a prank on our unexpected guests.
I snuck outside and turned on the
sprinklers. When the water hit their sleeping bags these guys were
rolling around like Mexican jumping beans. I couldn’t wait
to hear the explanation for this unannounced visit. I figured there
must be some dubious cause for a slumber in the garden. When these
guys finally came around, it was obvious they did not come down
to drink beer and chase skirts.
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