Together and Alone

A long awaited weekend came and went more quietly than I had expected. A simple camping trip, with a jumble of friends and mutual friends. Some old, some a bit newer, all missed in ways that remind me of different periods of my life. 

We had discussed this rendezvous for a few years, really. East coast meets west coast, high school buddies meet the college gang. From the outside, it might look like the intersection of two separate worlds. But sitting lazily on a bright, cozy Big Sur beach with a joint, a few beers, and a bag of Salt & Vinegar chips, our worlds couldn’t feel more connected. Conversation flowed easily, waning in and out like the polished stones rolling up the sand in the shorebreak. It was reassuring how naturally we clicked; reassuring that there is more to friendships than chance.  

The day danced between hot and cool. The heat of the uninhibited sun and the chill of the central Californian sea played a game of tug of war on my skin and, to my pleasure, no side really seemed to win. 

In front of us, about 20 yards out from the shore, a fallen, unidentifiable tree jutted out of the water. Its branches looked sharp and thin. Every quarter hour or so, the water at the edge of the point would surge and rise, and seconds later a miniature right would pop up out of the bay and crumble alongside the exposed wooden fingers. The wave was fickle and looked barely surfable. It took a few hours (about 10 sets) to pull on my wetsuit and paddle out. 

I think I caught three waves and by the time I got back to the beach we were ready to start wrapping up and figure out where the heck we were going to spend the night. We ultimately decided on a bluff tucked between Sunset State Beach and a sprawling strawberry farm. That evening consisted of more beers and too much whiskey. We laughed and talked until our firewood burned out (far later than expected) before retreating back to our cars for a welcomed rest.

The following morning we stopped in Santa Cruz to get the East-Coasters some Californian breakfast burritos. We ate like we were in a rush, but really we were just hungry. We said our goodbyes on the cliffs overlooking Pleasure Point. And just like that, the weekend was over. 

I took the scenic route back north. Partially for the view, partially to indulge my nostalgic side, and partially because I could not comprehend driving the winding 17 highway through the mountains this hungover. I drove the Pacific Coast Highway with the windows and radio down. Santa Cruz disappeared into my rear-view as I watched the rolling hills, at the base of the Big Basin mountains, fall sharply into the sea. The one-lane road tracing the edge of the cliffs like a tease– like it forgot that this too would crumble down to the water some day.

The melancholia of the hazy drive to San Francisco was unshakeable, sticking like kelp in the surf. I used to drive this road between Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay all the time as a confused and depressed freshman at college. When campus felt suffocating, I used to car camp on these vista point turnouts overlooking the ocean from hundreds of feet above, the loneliness both pain and pleasure. 

Looking back, I don’t think I’ve ever driven this stretch as healthy as I am today. But I also haven’t driven this stretch following such an abrupt goodbye. I was lonely again, but this time it lacked any real pleasure. 

PCH rolled back inward towards itself and dipped down into a valley as Waddell Creek State Beach appeared through the trees. The waves were jarringly good and instantly snapped me from my sad trance. Waste-high peaks lined the bright, white sandy beach. The ocean’s surface was a mirror of sheet glass as little tubes grinded across the inner sand bar. Slamming the breaks and cranking a dangerous, hard left turn, I pulled into the parking lot (still going faster than I should). 

It wasn’t difficult to find a double-up left peak to myself and I spent the better part of two hours doing laps in the lineup. The sun blazed up above while my dangling toes froze and that strange reawakened loneliness began to reshape. 

Families played loudly on the beach and surfers huddled in close packs in the water and there I was just floating in the middle of it. I didn’t speak, because there was no one to speak to. I didn’t laugh, because nobody was telling jokes. I didn’t burn anybody because there was no one close enough to burn (lol). It was just me, paddling and riding in circles on my Andreini Vaquero. So fucking stoked. 

These were the moments that drew me to this stretch of land in the first place. The quiet that’s found adjacent to redwood insulated mountains. The sharp reminder that “this is life!” that comes from submerging your face in the freezing sea. The solitude and simplicity of a wave to yourself is something to celebrate, rather than fear. This is the side of loneliness that I desperately squeezed dry some six years earlier. The side of loneliness that is reassuring. The side where everything you could ever need is laid out in front of you, in the nexus between land, sky, and sea. 

What an incredible weekend this was. Great friends, old and new. Good views, long stories, plenty of laughs, so many cans of ravioli, one dank breakfast burrito, and a solo surf to wash it all down. 

When I arrived back at my apartment, my girlfriend said that I was glowing. This was probably from the sunburn burn (of which I am now peeling), but I’m certain that it’s partially from something more.