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.