SURF SEDUCTION
A former gremmie recalls the allure of summer breaks
One evening in the summer of '99, I parked my car along Pacific Coast Highway to see the sun set over the ocean. I hit repeat on the CD player, because I wasn't finished with Cat Stevens, and watched three hot surfers who'd just arrived at Malibu Pier attach leashes to their ankles and run across the sand to dive headlong onto boards barely wider than their slender bodies. What looked like a few effortless strokes took them out beyond the break, where dozens of others bobbed on the luminous evening water. I rolled down my windows to let the heady ocean air waft through the car.
In the near distance, a set (a collection of five or six good waves that come in one after another) rolled gently toward land, getting thicker and darker as it neared the line of waiting surfers. Nearly in unison, they turned on their boards and paddled deftly toward shore. One, two, three got up as the first wave swept under them; a few pulled out; and several others clumsily plummeted over the noses of their boards. With the next wave came another seemingly choreographed effort by riders, and then again, and again, until the last wave of the set had washed onto shore.
Maybe it was the magical golden California sunlight, or maybe it was Cat Stevens's mystical crooning - I can't say - but I was strangely compelled to join them; to toss aside my distrust of large bodies of water, and my fear of seaweed and sharks, and take a long, long ride on a fabulous Malibu wave.
Within a couple of weeks, I'd found a barely used wetsuit in the Recycler and borrowed an old, cheap board from a friend. Rather than buy a surf rack, I managed to fit the board in my car - through the front passenger window diagonally back to the corner of the rear window. (I can't recommend that technique for all cars, but it worked for my two-door Jetta.) I started by taking the board out on Zuma Beach, where there are no waves to speak of but a very forgiving sandy bottom. I'd drive up the coast after work, still in a dress and high heels, change into my wetsuit (because even in the summer, the Pacific is no bathtub), and spend the remaining hours of light trying to manage an eight-foot piece of shaped fiberglass. After a few weekends and late evenings at the beach, I'd developed enough misguided confidence to join the big kids at Malibu.
I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say it took a lot of grueling hours in the water to build endurance, understand the fluctuating moods of the waves, and get a handle on surf etiquette. But the fact that I kept returning to Malibu, despite the steep learning curve, is testament to the enchanting allure of surfing and the people who share the waves.
California surfers represent an interesting cross-section of the population, and, while there are always a few on the waves driven by testosterone and ego, I've found most are generous, likable souls who have a deep appreciation for the natural attributes of SoCal living. Many do practice that stereotypical Zen-like philosophy of life, on the water and in their daily lives.
Even though surfing originated in Hawaii, the sport was nurtured in California, where adventuresome dudes like Tom Blake, the legendary surfer and pioneer, developed new equipment and ride techniques on the smooth, nearly perfect waves at Malibu. After Gidget hit movie theaters in 1959, surfing became a branded image of endless summer and the laid-back California lifestyle. With the advent of short boards in the early '70s, surfing changed to a sexier, faster, higher-performance sport that required more challenging waves and gutsier riders.
Since Blake rode his gigantic longboard there, Malibu remains one of the most popular gentle breaks in the world, but, lucky for us, it's not the only one around to go to for waves. Santa Monica Bay has several good surf beaches; however, if you prefer to be north of the major points of urban runoff, there are decent breaks at Topanga and Sunset; private beaches with secret entrances (I know nothing); and, beyond Malibu, County Line, which is also close to Neptune's Net (42505 Pacific Coast Hwy., Malibu, 310-457-3095), a quirky seafood shack and Harley hangout with great people-watching prospects. Essentially, the farther north on PCH you go, the more challenging the waves and the less crowded the beaches.
I live in downtown L.A. now, so the closest I get to a body of water for weeks at a time is the pool that collects under the Pershing Square water feature. But I hear her from here, the Surf Siren, tempting me out of my urban encasing, away from the computer and iPod. I won't fold today, but when summer comes, I will give in and join the others at sundown on the luminous water just north of the Malibu Pier.Published: 05/19/2005
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