South to San Luis Obispo

The drive south from San Francisco to San Luis Obisbo is long and winding. And in the winter time, the sun burns in front of your face the entire time. Despite this, the drive feels quick. Each town follows closely behind the next and I move through them like a Netflix series. Santa Clara, San Jose, Gilroy, Salinas, Gonzales, King City, Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo. By the time I reach a new one, I’m already looking down the road for another, while the prior slips into a memory bank for the journey back.

The coastal mountains watch closely as I moved from techland to farmland and farmland to desert. As I approached my destination, oil rigs line the highway like giant mechanical birds pecking at the cracked earth for worms. As quickly as they appear, they are gone, and I dip down into a greening valley and am spit out into the town of San Luis Obispo. This oasis feels out of place. But for that, I blame the oil wells. 

We meet up in an upper corner apartment of a quiet quadruplex. I can easily identify my holiday residence by the multiple wetsuits that hang from the balcony like a group of deflated manikins. I wonder if this is how we are all going to look by the time this weekend is through.

I’m greeted at the door by John who gives me a fist bump before confirming negative covid test results, which is then followed with a hug. It’s been an entire election since we last saw each other, and that counts for like two years of normal time. Next comes Alika, popping out briefly from behind his bedroom door. He’s in a zoom class but assures me that he’ll be done soon. Chad and Zach arrive a bit later, Chad from work and Zach from an extended morning surf session.

We rest and stretch and play video games until the sun creeps in through the window before finally agreeing to check Sewers, a right and a left at the base of a steep cliff and the mouth of a (you guessed it) sewer. It’s onshore almost everywhere else, but here the wind comes from the side.

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The sun was setting fast and the chopped up ocean surface looked like a kaleidoscope of only white and green. The surf was small, but more fun than I would have ever guessed. A steep and rising north swell created a playful and smackable left alongside an exposed rock before unloading on a flat and sandy beach. 

After a few epic little rides and an accidental burn job that left a friend stuck on the rocks (I’m sorry again, Chad), we called it a day and scampered on frozen toes back up the cliffside and into the warmth of our car. Pizza was ordered on the way home, and eaten on an old couch and air mattress that took up the entire living room floor. The five of us packed into this small apartment like it was a sweater just a size or two too small. It was comfy– dare I say cozy, but undeniably tight. 

The following morning was the morning we’d been eyeing on Surfline for the past two weeks. That rising swell from the day prior had risen, and the winds were howling offshore. Packed into two cars, we set off north on Highway 1, passing the infamous Morro rock (as well as countless grazing cows) along the way. 

Pulling off the highway, we drove quietly through one of those classic beachy towns, where sand has filled in the cracks in the street and the houses are all polished with salt. My first glimpse of the surf looked like the snap of a photograph as we rolled past a beach entrance between two pale blue homes. In that moment, the ocean was lined with bright green ribs while a breaking wave sent a chandelier of spray ten feet in the air and out the back. 

The morning out in the water turned into the afternoon in a blink of an eye and a hundred barrels. Head-high sets moved towards shore with remarkable consistency. Offshore wind draping each wave with the perfect texture as they peeled, both left and right, across the shallow sand bar. The five of us took turns splitting peaks and calling each other into waves. Between the five of us, we had enough barrels to spoil our dinner and Chad finally got his payback, burning me on a bomb.

We spend the remainder of the long weekend lounging, cooking, eating, and surfing. Not a bad way to live, be it just a few days. The central coast, despite the freezing waters, was the perfect backdrop in which to roam and explore. The mystery of trying new spots with old friends was enough excitement in itself. The fact that we scored perfect waves nearly every day, now that’s just gravy. 

I drove home on Saturday in order to avoid Sunday scaries alone in my car. Although the endless sunset of evening winters in California was no help. Driving north, passing the towns that I had passed by before, I watched as the thick, low light was sucked into the shadow of those coastal mountains. I thought about my friends, and that epic surf, and that perfect wave that Chad burned me on.