We’ve been in the California Republic for a week, hanging out with son and grandsons, our visit luckily coinciding with a nice little south ocean swell, thanks to the retreating hurricane Barbara.  We’re in Santa Cruz, a quirky little city of several distinct neighborhoods, each with its own character and, depending on the time of day, its traffic snarls.  Santa Cruz is hilly, and there are no straight roads.  It’s easy to get turned around and lost, but you always end up where you wanted to be.  There are piers and wharfs, cliffs, marinas, and even a garish boardwalk with rides along the curving shoreline of the magnificent Monterrey Bay.  But first and foremost, this is a surf town.  Everybody surfs. Little kids; pregnant women; testosterone-fueled bad-asses; old, white-haired dudes. Because of the convoluted coastal configuration– much of it actually facing south-there are at least a half-dozen named, and distinct surf spots, something for every level of experience, from entry-level and always crowded Cowells, next to the boardwalk, to the famous and challenging Steamer Lane, where the pros rule, and where many reputations have been made, and lost.

It’s a dream come true for me to be doing this, and it took a long time coming.  I was first bitten by the surf bug in land-locked Tallahassee, Florida, thanks to the Beach Boys, who didn’t actually surf, but captured a feeling and an era in song, that made me want to wax a board and paddle out. But it was this movie: The Endless Summer, by Bruce Brown, the story, in beautiful footage and a simple, clean, and mesmerizing soundtrack, of two California surfers’ circumnavigation of the earth in search of the perfect wave, that pushed me into my first wave at Jacksonville Beach in 1967.  I was hooked, and I distinctly remember telling myself a perfectly acceptable goal in life was to live somewhere where I could surf every day.

Fast forward 15 years.  We had an eight-year-old towhead grom, and were living in Port Orange, five mile from the beach. We got ourselves a couple of used sticks and together we set to conquering the fairly steep learning curve of surfing on weekend jaunts to Ponce Inlet and the Sunglow pier.  In time we had two boards shaped for us by a friend.  A couple of summers, when I was writing full-time, I would work in the morning, then take a pick-up truck load of kids to the beach for a session.  We did that many, many times, and those images are deeply seared in my memory.

When we got The Little Hacienda, we were truly home. Throughout the many renovation projects I kept an eye on the ocean, a scant few yards away, and when it was good, I put down the hammer and paddled out. I was living, and still live, where I can surf every day.  I don’t, not nearly as much as I did anyway, but I can.

But California has always loomed as the promised land for surfing in my mind. I used to have a dream where I was cresting a hill, and there, on the other side, was the Pacific, all blue and clear, with a bright golden sun shining down and clean lines of surf wrapping in. So, if it meant that much, why didn’t I go a long time ago, you might ask.  I don’t know; life intervened, I guess; it wasn’t a driving force, just a dream.  Last year, with our son living here, I finally got to go out, with him and a grandson just learning, whom we had introduced to the water at The Little Hacienda.  It was wonderful, and cold! You always need a wetsuit in this water.

This trip has been the bomb! Great weather– cool, foggy mornings morphing into mild, clear afternoons– with a good south swell pumping, thanks to the retreating hurricane to our south.  A gentle swell, with occasional head-high sets pushing through.  We’ve been out three times, once with a long-time friend of our son, who came down from San Francisco for the day.  We paddled to the outside peak at Capitola Beach.  The highlight of the day for me was coming face to face with a sea otter, floating on his back, and breaking into a clam. He looked at me, took his time finishing his meal, then gracefully dived beneath the kelp.

Today the three generations went out at Capitola again.  It was a clear, warm day; the surf was perfect, and crowded.  Tough to get any waves, but the vibe was good, and we all did.  Pretty cool to surf with your son and grandson.  In surfing parlance, that was sick! Leaving tomorrow to go back to my home break. The waves aren’t nearly as good as out here, but it’s a short walk, and there’s almost never anybody else out.  Can’t wait.  The stoke is still alive.