Driving North -homeward-

SWR report
June 17, 2008

Kerouac talked about running down the mountain. How it set him free - how it was so much easier to go down than up. He let his arms span wide, balanced his body, and let his body free fall down the mountain.

We return - and it is much faster than I would like, less glorious, a dwindling of spirit. We are fed by our spirits on the way home - we have fed our spirits to the brim, and now, we eat off the reserve.

We leave from the south of San O'nofre: the power plant that holds steady in the cobblestone floor that reaches out in one wide point; we leave those ten foot waves cheering each new rider, we leave Chris with his new barbeque and 6' foam board that carved its name in those faces; we head up pass Mission Viejo and San Clemente, where I miss Cameron and Theresa; we leave Huntington, home of Sunset Cliffs and Bolsa Chica and Larry and Trish and the yellow room, we leave Tony and we leave Mothers' miso soup.

We pass all the highways going north that seem to carve their names indelibly on our souls until our return. Especially the south bay of LA - my youth framed in highway signs: Rosecrans Ave; Manhattan Ave; El Segundo Bld., Grand Avenue - where I first learned to surf with the green Vardeman surfboard; LAX; Washington Blvd., Venice - where Tahm takes his daily strolls to the water and surfs the small peaks of his home break - where Peter is left writing his projects in the sundrenched apartments of Santa Monica; we leave Ventura in all its picture perfect points - in fact we stop to look at the glass and the nose riders and the latest models of bikinis; and we pass the homes of Tim Coonan and Craig Montgomery and their kindness; and on to Santa Barbara.

But we can't keep going and visit Isla Vista and quickly change into wet suits for one last surf at a spot we hadn't touched yet: Campus Point. There we paddled north into the funnest little peak that had juice behind it enough to spit a small hollow curl out into an extended glassy shoulder. The sun was warm. the wave was welcoming, the water was turqoise (no kidding), the sand copper, the cliffs were tumbling green vegetation and flowers fell like cataracts down to the brown rocks.

We pass my favorite stretch of California, from Santa Barbara to Santa Maria - I swear I could live in these golden folds of oak forests and rolling foothills where the land looks dry yet fertile and rich and thick - where a river runs through it - where Steinbeck rested his head on a small outcrop in the sun, felt the intoxicating tradewind from nearby Goleta, and dreamt.

We finally fall into the valley just in from where 101 careens northeast about ten miles, into San Luis Obispo. There we sleep before we part and Joe heads north to home in Sebastopol from where we first began our journey. Here, I continue my journey.

It was sad to see Joe go. For two weeks we followed summer wedded and committed to waves, sun, disc golf, coffee shops, camping, telling stories, reading stories, guitars, surfboards, wax, wet suits, gas prices, meeting new people, mexican food, spelt scones, and all things travel on the road brings to it. Most of all, we shared the many waves, the water - always back to the water, the splash of blue on our faces as we paddled over and over and over, baptized each time with the hope of grace, the hope of dance, the hope of walking on water, the hope of dreams.

Nine Breaths

SWR report
June 13, 2008

"Wanna go for a climb?"

Daphne and I, up at dawn, walked the mile or two to the base of Bishop Peak. San Luis Obispo is built around a series of nine little mountains - actually, extinct volcanoes called "morros." Bishop peak has three outcrops of big granite rocks and boulders sitting atop the peak. The volcano stands at 1,559 feet. It is the highest of nine morros that erupt from this snug valley ranging from Morro bay to San Luis Obispo. They call the morros The Nine Sisters. Daphne and I hiked through the native grasses and oak filled hills to the base of the highest granite outcrop. I love granite - it feels so solid and its gray and white surface creates an assured strong grip to the sole of your shoe. It was 10 am and warm on the east facing side of the mountain - the trail wraps around the morro and so you feel the cool trade breezes coming in from the chilly waters of Morro and the Pacific. We labored up the granite peaks, crack climbing up to the top, pulling and reaching, like a surfer through thick glass to get to the outside.

Atop the peak and just one more ledge of granite to surmise, Daphne casually claims, "Don't look around, just focus on getting to the top first - and remember to breathe." Of course that made me look out instantly and it was like immediate vertigo. I held my breath, but it wasn't a bad thing - it was like, whoa, I am really high right now - it was like the 1600 foot drop swooped up into my head and gave me a giddy feeling - better focus - and so with one more final reach, I humped my body up the last slab of granite.

There I was standing 1600 feet above the town, watching an eagle sore below, above the ocean which lay asleep at its horizon in the west, where Joe and I had accompanied so many waves to shore. Being on top of a mountain peak offers the same feeling of being out in big surf - your insides quake at the thought of any mistep, but the rush of excitement from being in the center of something so totally greater than you, like having the love of nine sisters, or even six, holding you in their bosom, comforting you in their pure power, grace and love.

We do commune in life. And it gives breath to us. Kabir said pay attention to the breath within the breath. There is a pulse at the top of a mountain - the same beat pulsates at the crest of a wave, or at the edge of a river. Earth breathes. Nine times in San Luis Obispo. Listen closely.

Campus Point

SWR report
June 12, 2008

We wake up in San Luis Obispo fresh, but with sand in our hair and always a little more sunburnt than the day before. All night sleeping in the tent trailer I just think of the perfect waves we rode yesterday in Santa Barbara.

You park on the south side of campus and make sure you pay - you don't care about paying because below you, three flights of thick wooden stairs, swish the tides of an emerald green blue wave. They roll into the small bay with the help of a south swell. We hike down the stairs with our boards, determined to go leashless, and begin paddling the quarter mile to the break.

I can't express the beauty of being in the water, the cliffs to our side and paddling a quarter mile out to the break, the only ones out again, wearing our baseball caps, no leashes, and the farther we paddle the bigger the swell becomes, until we reach a very rocky point where the most darling wave of rush and power blue curls and spits until it mellows into a long line of water where you pump and walk and ride, breathing in your whole existence, the trip, the beautiful miracle you are so grateful for. Honor the moments - they come in our lives, like good swells.

More to come.

Going In

SWR report
June 11, 2008

You go in dry - with each quirky step across the cobblestone, sea urchin, seaweed slip - the water and salt slips in. With the water comes a holy spirit and when it is deep enough you throw yourself on the board, chest up and paddle at the lull. The rip helps you out a bit, your head, dry for a minute gets ready for the first small wall of white water - you dip the nose of your long board below the line of white and prop your prone body up so that the onslaught of water rushes between you and waxed board. the water feels warm, much warmer than home - you realize your suit is too heavy for this climate. You paddle a bit more vigorously. Here comes another line of white water and you time your entry and it pushes you back a little, and you paddle a bit harder, now knowing you are almost there and you try to beat the next wave before it turns - I got it, I know I have it, paddle, paddle, paddle - and it is always just perfect, you fly up the face at its peak and drop down the smooth backside as the wave falls beneath you, a sound of collapse - your face and hair is wet - you look around, see the horizon stretch for miles, see the sky blue breaking grey, the cliffs of ivy, the coral trees, the bamboo and spotted colors along the brown sand and back to the lineup - waiting, waiting, waiting

Big Tuesday

SWR report
June 10, 2008

On a foggy Tuesday morning we packed our wet wetsuits and traveled south hoping that the swell we caught yesterday at Huntington Cliffs would be rolling in across the wide span of cobblestoned ocean floor of San O'nofre. We weren't disappointed. While waiting for Joe's friend Chris to show up, Joe and I pondered the overhead size swell that came tumbling in slowly and powerfully. There wasn't much of a crowd and once Chris showed up, with a new barbeque and turkey burgers, we jumped into the biggest waves of our trip so far.

It is always a little tricky to direct your route across a cobblestoned ocean floor, but that is what one must do for a good twenty-five yards until he can paddle towards the break without scraping his board. Once paddling, the surfer times the sets so that he can make it to the outside break without expending too much energy.

I'm just about out of charge here, so I will continue blog tomorrow.

Suffice to say, it was fun today, no matter how much we got beat up out there - and the turkey burgers -mmm, mmm, good!

Shooting the Pier

SWR report
June 9, 2008

Making our way south

SWR report
June 9, 2008

We left Craig's wonderful family in Ventura surfing perfectly shaped glassy waves of four to six feet and playing rounds of disc golf in the local parks. Check out the plaza scene in Ventura with their Morton Bay Fig trees and San Buenaventura mission. The Silverliner train that woke us in Refugio passes through this town. It passes parallel to the promenade that overlooks the point. The surf was incredible.

We traveled late into LA county. County line was going off - large 6 foot peaks of glass, looming glassy from the kelp beds (unusual for most L A beaches). Joe saw Malibu for the first time, where knee high perfectly shaped waves rolled one after another. the crowd was minimal. Sunset showed the pulse of the swell, but high tide flattened the waves. So on we went to visit Tahm.

Tahm and Sandra welcomed us wholeheartedly and we surfed Sunset, just below Malibu. Glassy 4 foot waves graced us all morning. We had fun with a camera out there, but Tahm and I messed up the controls and we didn't get much on film. Sandy got the wave of the day. I can't fully describe the stay at Tahm's house, because I'd be writing all night. Someday I will. His house is a living extension of himself. Tahm is one of the most creative and inspiring people I know and I felt a sadness leaving his eclectic abode. We'll get back to LA - it's a place worth writing about - check out Joan Didion - she captures the LA area in it's perfect state of both bliss and bewilderment.

Bootie Mystery

SWR report
June 6, 2008

Flattened pennies from the rails, cove and cape walks, spelunking the point at low tide, tiki carving, hot showers, guitar playing, Tecate with Wolfgang - a German retiree telling us of his adventures in Las Vegas, Utah, and California - faces sunburnt, hair thick with salt, wetsuits tight and crackly, - and of course, the early morning sessions out at the point - we leave it all behind this morning, headed out for California Street in Ventura and the next wave of our trip.

Traveling south on the wings of Zephyr, we blow into California Street, a wide point that fans its waves out like hibiscus flowers across the cobblestone floor. "Dude," says Joe, "why is everyone wearing booties?" My bet was because of the rocks. I hate booties and will pass on them anytime possible. Yeah, my feet are pretty scratched up by now, but the feel of sole to wax to board is a holy feeling, not to be blasphemed by rubber. I've had enough rubber - and this is So Cal. It was funny, though, for some reason we kept our hoods on. No one surfing So Cal wears a hood.

Some sort of wind fetch created the best waves of our trip this morning, and there's nothing like surfing with friends. So Tim Coonan, State Ranger and keeper of the Channel Islands foxes joined us. Joe did well on the 7' 1" "Wasp," while Tim and I rode the middle and inside sections of C street. We sloped down shoulder high faces, bottom turning up to the whitewater lips, and down the arch of rolling blue shoulder. Some very long rides, some very short ones. Taking off on a bigger wave fills the heart with exhiliration. Surfing is action - action created out of rush and movement, and you hope to act freely within that movement - it is creative, but one is always at the will of the water - always back to the water. I had a couple good wipeouts testing out the rib cage, but falling in water is thing of joy, a thing of letting go, a thing being held in the deep breath of God's voice.

Had you been overlooking one of the rails of the Ventura promenade somewhere between C Street and Figueroga, taking in the sights and surf, you would have overheard a curious five year old toddler, head full of chocolate curls, look up at her mom, and with inquisitive ocean eyes, ask, "Mama, who are the ones in the hoods?"

The Library

Dashboard dreams. (Refugio in the background)

Class is in session.

Isla Vista has the right idea. Glad the surf wasn't this crowded.

Taking Refuge

SWR report
June 5, 2008

At night, Refugio spends itself on a crowded canopy of white stars against a cold wind-blown, black sky. Kerouac's Silver Liner clacks loudly against the tracks waking us to a south facing cove whose waves toss themselves toward the point and rocky shelf, home to the prehistoric pelicans - hundreds of them - I scare them, with an early morning run around the point. Later, with board beneath my arm, sans wetsuit, I dive into the surf, frigid fanning of wave water - quick slides down the two foot surf and rolling into the cove. The sun warms the palms, and the grass, and the sand, and the water, and the shivering surfer. Joe came out minutes later with "baby blue," his 9'6' 40 pound board to offer some Northern California homage style.

Later, we drove down to Leadbetters and downtown Santa Barbara and surfed a place called "Kelps" for about two hours in the south facing sun. Once again we were the only ones out - until two young women joined us out there in their bikinis. Joe felt wimpy in his suit and hood, next to them - I felt cozy. We are both very burnt and need to get back to our refuge for sleep, beer, reading, and dreams. We dream of you, reader, and how we wish you were here with us. Every wave we hold you close to us, deep inside the water of our dreams, the water of our coves, the water of our points, chasing the tides of the days.

For the Linkers - Refugio awaits a reunion - in its natural state. The cove, the point, the cape, the grass, the bluffs of gold, the clacking jolting train.

For Joe and I, we spend one more night at the refuge carving tikis, before we head further south to Ventura County - where we hope to stay with friends.

SWR report
June 4, 2008

Taking Refuge

One's spirits rise when flying down the deep gorge of Gaviota, past the pea soup signs of Buellton, into that v-shaped neck that points to a blue and blinding sea. The train trussel of ancient woods still connect the pass as 101 sweeps into a large left swirl, suddenly heading south, finally running parallel to the sun-drenched Pacific.

We were early at Refugio, a startling cove that at one time in the early 1800's, gave refuge to pirates smuggling incense and treasures and exotic foods and crafts from distant countries. This was illegal according to Spain's rule at the time, but the newly found owner of this huge parcel and coastal utopia sought to maverick the government and did well for many years until the Spanish came and raided and razed the land and his homes. The treasure was never found.

Being flat at Refugio we headed south in hopes of surf. News is that gale warnings are due Thursday so we were looking for protected spots.

Off the north end of Isla Vista, resides a bluff of golden sponge grass with a worn dirt path that leads to an old, cement structure at the base of the cliffs. There is a stone chimney and the solid foundation of some sort of house like structure, all built with stone and cement, still surviving at what one can only surmise to have been an endless amount of punishment from great northwestern storms blowing and sending massive waves against its stone walls. And yet, there it stands with two large dead trees forming a triangle above it, with one strong date palm nestled right behind it half way up the bluff. It is covered in beautiful colors of graffiti art and stands like some great worn talisman for those who surf its shores.

And surf we did. We surfed our best surf to date. Joe took out "The Wasp" while I carried "The Rocket" down into nearly perfectly shaped rights off a rocky point. It was a miracle of surf. Kelp beds smoothed the wind's vice across the water, offering three foot slopes of fresh and cold water breaks. We were out alone, in the sun, in the water, for hours, I repeat - alone! with perfect swr waves - all prayers answered.

I can only think how lucky I am and that I wish all my family and friends were here with me - and I suppose in a way you are. Welcome!

Just one more thing about this utopian town of Isla Vista. The bikes - oh my gosh - the bikes are taking over!!! I love it!

Wiped Out

SWR report
June 4, 2008

We left Santa Cruz after a good mellow surf in the cool of a cove that dug deeply into a bluff. We were on our way to San Luis Obispo.

Who would have known that centuries ago, in the midst of severe drought, drugged by a drying sun, when Odysseus heard the vapid Sirens, when Poseidon scolded his one-eyed son, Polyphemus, and Apollo gave chase to virgin river nymphs, and all the world stood still in the sun drenched waves, silent, hot, sultry, static, still, listening for the waves to return, that the great god of all winds, Aeolus, took a leave of absence from the realm and went to his favorite vacation spot by the name of San Luis Obispo!

Like so many wind swept cliffs, the god stands resilient, residing in the quaint town, and like Persephone, rises to Earth to appear in Spring. He blows hard in this region, hard at the disc golf ranges, hard at the extreme low tides of Pismo pier, hard at Montano de Oro, hard at Hazards, hard at Turtles, hard at Shell Beach, hard up at Morro Rock. His breath blows and chases you out of town with vengeance. Only the tough can stick it out - or those that devote their time to the university.

We met Daphne's roommates and friends, and celebrated 23 years of Daphne. We are so grateful for the hospitality they provided, as well as the pina colodas, and the beds - where we dreamt of calmer winds sprinkling a soft glass upon the sea.

Anyway, having no patience for Greek gods, we hurled ourselves out of that gale laden valley and headed south. We made good time eating organic, spelt strawberry scones and reading aloud more of Bryson's tales of hiking the Appalachian trails.

Duct Taped Mourning

SWR report
June 3, 2008

Wasn’t it ee cummings who wrote “up at does”? And so, we were up at dawn – even a little earlier – woken by the doves while nestled in our camp surrounded by wild raspberries and tall grass – the stars still fierce in their fire and the drone of the distant hi-ways – but the tide is right for only a short while and so, in that early dawn light that gleams a soft gray upon the silky oily glassy water, we drove to Cowell’s hoping it to be the best break in consideration of that magical mix of tide, swell and wind, so giving to an early good surf. The waves below the bluffs peeled like bicycle spokes spinning a small two foot glassy bar of bold blue. We slid down the long reaching shoulders toward the pier – we came in on our bellies, on our knees, on our toes, switching stances, walking up and down the deck like leisurely strolls along a boardwalk, hanging toes above the nose, doing handstands, praying buddhas, and posing classic surfing stances. And so the German girl sitting atop the golden bluffs in that early up at does morning was overheard saying in a sharp diligent accent, “I like a the wey those twoo surfer dudes move along on their boards.”

Happy Birthday Daphne Erin Linker!

The Hook

SWR report
June 3 for June 2

After driving to a multitude of surf spots around the Cruz area, we agreed it would be best to wait until the afternoon mix of tide and swell to go out – and so we further ventured into that lugubrious realm of earth – the wild grass, scrub, bush, poison oak, juniper, and just plain dirt of disc golf. While some may call it a past time – we call it a passion – and so, measured with hurt ribs and twisted backs, we proceeded to find the nearest chained baskets. Nestled into the hills of the Cruz, past a pristine and unseasonably verdant green golf course, the disc golfer in all his Hunter S. Thompson glee and vixenity, we surreptitiously glide past the rich greens to get to the heart of the mountain, further on up the road, to where the more derelict of golfer status resides, in all hills golden and rough, to where a small parking lot gives way to a crux in a matrix of a twenty-seven hole disc golf course. There we golfed with enthusiastic disc tossing hippies, veterans, stoners, surfers, one-eyed bandit looking pirates, two guys choked in business ties, and a one legged man who could throw more accurately and farther than any other athlete I’ve ever witnessed. While Joe has a propensity for hitting rather large limbs of eucalyptus trees, I had a difficult time with my new putter disc. We both found our rhythm by the tenth hole, when it was time to get back into the surf on time.

We made our way to one of the most famous and classic spots in all of California known as “the hook.” The hook for good reason – this is one of the fastest waves I’ve ridden. It’s a quick take off and once committed you streak down the face, pumping if you can to make the section and if you do make it, you made it through to another twenty plus yards of building and sloping shoulder, fast and easy, fast and easy, up and down, up and down, light and blue, blue and fast, slow and steady, bright and sun, sun and light, white and water, water and white. A surfer sometimes notices the wax, the paradoxical connection that seams the body to the board, and you feel the soul’s grip to the deck and you hold out for those fast sections and you pivot and turn out with weight toward the kelp-bedded horizon. This is a rocky and bouldery floor that will hurt if you hit bottom. But we came out with only a few scratches, and well surfed out. The Irish women above the bluff, leaning on the old redwood rails was noted saying beneath her breath, “bloody bagger eejits mate – such footwork as I’ve never seen before, by the likes of me.” She had red hair, sunburnt freckles, and eyes the color of the sky. The hook was good.

And when we leave, night falls, shadows meld into dark, and the waves fall, dreaming of us.

Taking off

SWR report
June 2, 2008

As with all good trips of any kind, our trip began slow and late. One aims high in getting up early for the glass, but often, especially at the start of the trip, inevitability reaches beyond one’s expectations, and before you realize it it’s three hours later than when you eagerly wanted to jump in. But, hey, it’s summer for these boys and the beginning of our trip was trimmed with all kinds of laughable incidents – Joe and I are prone to laughter.

Our first stop ventured no farther than the local health food store in Sebastopol Calif. There, in a crowd of Sebastopolians, while waiting for organic sprouted chicken sandwiches – a rich motley amalgamation of dreadlock yuppies; jungle faring hippies; yoga sprung soccer moms; bewildered freshman college dropouts; new aged waldorf toe-headed, large and blue-eyed tots; fresh fruit perfumed teenagers; middle and older aged grooved out Rumi disciples; and tough, rugged, organic meat butchers - a thin, wild-eyed, short cropped blonde hair, near-middle aged man suddenly went into a rampage on all things secular, including vegetarianism, global religion, rampant wi-fi infestation, Leonard Peltier, melting ice-bergs, and all things harmful to our environment, our private lives, and our local communities. I admired his audacity. While most of the crowd stood there, stung and not very grateful for the impromptu sermon, Joe and I cheered and whispered to each other how we loved the guy and all that he preached. Sadly, within minutes, the Sebastopol police – an interesting partnership of a bald-headed stout captain of arms and the first dreadlocked policeman I’ve ever witnessed – swooped our speaker away – actually, they just walked him out the store and headed him in the direction of the farmer’s market, where they thought he might be better received amidst the fountain lovers, harp players, and beeswax sellers. We followed our hero for a bit, jumped in our truck, and made for hi-way one.

Our drive was bright blue the whole way. The Golden Gate – I don’t know why, but always raises the spirit a notch – loomed like a vivid postcard before us. 19th street was uneventful, and before we knew it, we traveled that long stretch of one from Daly City past a junked and confused surf of Pacifica, meanwhile sharing the road with the occasional AIDS Life Cycle bicycle riders from San Francisco to LA, all while reading aloud a book a friend lent me called, A Walk in the Woods, by Bill Bryson.

We stopped at the traditional surf spots and sat above the cliffs and bluffs of Cowells beach where a nice four foot swell served at least a hundred surfers to the shore, all happily stoked even after maneuvering the LA freeway conditions out there. The swell looked promising but the tide was high and so we moved a little farther south into the town of Capitola where we found incredible four-foot perfect peaks that loomed one after another beneath the kelp beds. Like gods from below, they slowly rise, peak and break perfectly down the line, a gift, a long wall of cold, blue water, from Netune’s bounty.

And so we dawned our old, dry and crackly wetsuits. Mine had not been worn for a good long winter. It fit way too tight – I had either gained a lot of weight, or something happens to wetsuits after a long dry winter – but managed to get it on with help from Joe and so together, like two stiff middle aged penguins, we dove in.

What can I say? The water was refreshingly cold. All that I had experienced before in my surfing life suddenly overswept me like a big long wave. The swell welcomed us with a few good rides at the beginning. I was testing my rib cage out – the latest injury – but the conditions lent itself to a small little surf, truly tapered to SWR standards. And then, suddenly, as if he needed a long lap from a wearisome day of junior lifeguards, strand walkers, waders, baby dippers, seals, fishing boats, paddle boats, surfers and snorklers, Posiedon laid to rest and fell completely into a dream. We sat, no waves for a good twenty five minutes, but refreshed and wet, and decided to head to our campsite to get warmed by a fire and rested for tomorrow’s waves.

school's out

And another year turns if you're some sort of a teacher and at the school year's end. Spending time with so many teenagers - a good nine months of sharing stories, getting through rough mixes, and celebrating our victories, and everything else that goes along with a school year - and there's a lot going on - believe me - and so, with all those quick yet long memories, we take out our dusty boards, wipe them clean, melt the old wax, straighten out the chords, check the fins, admire the glass, check the wet suit, crinkly in its aging cracks, strap the boards to the roof, open the windows to the crisp salt air, and chase the early summer dawns towards glass, kelp, salt, sand, tar, wax, fog, water cold and ready - we run in innocence, we run in in experience like Blake upon a carving, like Huck into the river, like Dean Moriarty furiously rushing across the western states, like Ulysses back to Greece (well, maybe not), we travel west and travel south for adventure, friends, and occasional hill of water.

Refugio boogie circa 1975

More on SWR surf club

We've made about 7 films, there is going to be
an article in the school newspaper on the club, we have about 25
honorary members - it's really not that difficult to become an honorary
member - you just ask and we say yes, there's a web site from Cal Poly
and one being made in Washington DC, we've collected at least 35
separate dollar bills that I just keep putting into a big coffee table
book called Hippies that a student gave me for a gift and wrote in it
"For you Mr. Linker - these are your type of people" and we're really
not even a club, just more of a live entity that keeps growing - I
don't know what it is.

Sunset beach, just below Malibu - less crowded, good waves! I look forward to surfing this spot again.

Three Proud Disc Golfers! When they're not surfin' they're playing disc golf.

Another El Porto Small Wave Rider!

SWR got a corporate membership card for all members from the local Wolf Coffee shop which is just down the block from
my house, with several other shops dotted throughout Sonoma County. So all members get a discount on all coffee drinks and products. This club just keeps amazing me, keeps me laughing - We have 4 chapters, one in So
Cal, one in Central Cal, one in Nor Cal, one on the east coast.We have five tee shirts, 2 bumperstickers, Tahm (South Coast Chapter) has made a couple bars of wax with recipes of his device, and that he packaged with old found empty candy bar wrappers. Can’t wait to surf with Tahm in So Cal.

This is me at Refugio on a boogie board circa 1975. Photo taken by my brother Joe.

Small wave classic circa 1969

This just in from http://joelinker.wordpress.com/

My brother in 1969 - a classic swr day at our home break in El Porto, California - notice the glass, the head dip, and the lack of crowd. Stoke!

Our school's disc golf club

I'd like to warm up a little with this post - like mention how just today we had our biggest turn out 16 kids for the disc golf club - growing every week. Back in the early 1980's I was enrolled at Sonoma State (Grinola University). It was not unusual to see the campus come to life on weekends with different colors of discs hovering through the redwooded campus. Now at our high school is the fastest growing club ever. Get out your discs when the surf is blown out and get to your local disc golf course - or better yet, create your own object course.

small waves

We set up this blog mainly for anyone to view and enjoy our first swr surf road trip beginning June 1st and ending up at Daphne Linker's graduation party in San Luis Obispo on June 15th.  

We invite all friends and family to join us on any part of our trip, so here's the itinerary: 

June 1st and 2nd: Camping at New Brighton State Park (Camp site #2 reserved), just below Capitola and Santa Cruz - cliffs right on top the great Pacific Ocean.  

June 3rd: Staying at Daphne's (Mayor Central Coast Chapter CCC)house in San Luis Obispo - also Daphne's birthday.

June 4th and 5th: Refugio State Beach (Camp site #2 reserved), on grass and on beach with palm trees - join us for Refugio Daquiris with funny umbrellas.

June 6th: Ventura surfing California Street / not sure of where were staying - maybe Craigerman's or Tim Coonan's.

June 7th and 8th: My Birthday (June 8th) and surfing my hometown: Venice, Sunset, Malibu, El Porto, El Segundo - staying Tahmus Rounds (mayor, South Coast Chapter SCC) and Peter Gaulke's.

June 9th: Huntington Beach area (the cliffs), staying at Joe Di Orio's mom's.

June 10th: San Onofre - visiting Cameron and Theresa Simbro

June 11th:  Swamis and San Diego area - eating at Swamis restaurant - visiting San Diego friends

June 12th: surf San Onofre again, back at Joe's mom's house for the night.

June 13th, 14th  and 15th (Father's Day): back at San Luis Obispo for Daphne's graduation for 3 days and nights - staying at - well I forget the name of the place we're staying:  Sycamore? Springs.  It supposed to be nice, it's expensive.  Johnny will be busy, but surfing in the morning at any of the local spots.

June 15th: Heading home to Sonoma County with Maritsa and anyone else who needs a ride.

June 16th to June to June 22nd for local surfing in Sonoma, Marin and Mendocino Counities.

Jun