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?"