The Beginning of a Great American Adventure?

September 26th I took the 7pm ferry to get into the states, it was an impulse decision, I thought I'd still be in Canada for a day or two longer. This means that I started my grand American road trip at approximately 9pm.

If you've forgotten from my first post, the philosophy of this adventure was that there was no plan, cue all the bells and whistles that come with such a statement. But, for context, back in the spring when I'd bought the Astro I was planning on doing a road trip to Baja with friends. Then, midsummer, mid-van conversion I realized that I was really the only one getting ready to go to Mexico.

To my friends credit, Baja was never a concrete plan - it was more an idea many of us mused about. Regardless, I decided to do the road trip, which landed me here - hitting the pavement unloading from the ferry, awakened to my lack of plan. This lack of direction was confronting to me each time it was realized, even though it was borne of my intentions. As if I had tricked myself into the whole thing.

I knew no one down the entire Pacific coast of the US, no friends, no estranged distant relatives I could call for help or a place to land. But, I did have two friends who were also road tripping to a surfboard shaping convention, and had chatted with both of them about meeting up throughout the month and convoying for parts, but we were all on slightly different tracks. One of them, we’ll call them B, is a good friend of mine. He was a day or two behind me on the road and H (who I knew minimally) was a couple more days behind.

I'd been told of Westport, a small fishing and tourism town with fun surf in Washington, and decided to head there. I rolled into the area around midnight and decided to sleep about 30 minutes south of town, pulled off the road by a beach. Westport was a funny little place, there wasn't much there and it was rough around the edges. The people were incredibly kind though and the surf was fun. My leash snapped my first wave during the first surf, it felt symbolic in a sense.

I stayed for a couple of days and met the kindest man named Jay. He was 73, bright and cheery. Not very tall, bald with a long white beard and bold black round frame glasses with thick lenses. I met him standing in front of his older, slightly beat up Dodge Sprinter van. He'd been surfing since the 60s, and with a chuckle told me that when his wife lets him he lives out of the van approximately 6 months of the year, surfing and traversing the coast - visiting children and grandkids along the way. He spoke loudly and exuberantly, his attitude towards life held the excitement and zest of a kid in a candy shop. I genuinely couldn't believe that he was 73, I would've guessed him 10 years younger or more were it not for his physical appearance. I asked him how he maintained it all, gleaming and with a laugh, he shouted "God is good!" Meeting Jay eased my nerves.

My second morning in Westport I hopped in to surf a wave off some breakwaters that the locals called "the groins", it started small and had doubled in size by the time I looked up the embankment to see B waving at me. He hopped in the surf and afterwards we started convoying down the coast, we left Jay smiling and waving in the same parking lot where I'd met him. The road trip sped up from this point, B was on a bit of a time crunch to get to San Diego and I was happy to have someone to drive behind. These next few days involved a lot of driving, it wasn't unwelcomed though - the coastline was stunning and serene. We usually woke just after sunrise, I think B was often up earlier than me, and stayed on the road until dark. We hit Oregon, spent a night and surfed Seaside, saw Cannon Beach which was mind boggling, and kept trucking along. Cape Kiwanda and Gold Beach were also notably stunning. From Westport, San Diego was around 19 hours away if you went inland; but we were taking the coast so add a good few hours. Although the stretches of coastline were beautiful, driving long distances takes its toll - I'm not one to sit still for long and you can only shuffle your music and listen to your downloaded podcasts so many times before you go stir crazy. The surf breaks were essential to keeping moral and energy up.

The stretch through Southern Oregon and Northern California is a bit of a blur, I remember at some point we drove for at least 8 hours during which time my anxiety settled in once again. Serious doubts about what I was going to do the next couple of months swirled, while B remained ever grounded. After Seaside I know that we didn't get any surf, and we did not grasp how much driving we had ahead. It wasn't until at some point we hit Crescent City in Northern California where we realized, 1. How massive California actually is and 2. How little surf we may get over the next two days.

Also, as an aside, nobody told me this, but there are giant rocks that appear seemingly just thrown into the ocean off the Oregon and Northern Californian coast. They have more height than width and I don't think they are habitable-looking enough due to their shape to be considered islands. I don't know if I can find words better than that to describe them but I found them absurd and hard to wrap my head around. I'm sure a quick google search could describe them more coherently. I also remember that at some point in Oregon, while driving at a high elevation we came across desert-like plains. It was short-lived but shocking, truly one of the most unexpected things.

I cried when we hit the California border, it was unexpected and I still don't entirely know why. I took it as confirmation that something significant was to unfold.

Driving the Lost Coast was a highlight. About an hour and a half south of Eureka you can hop off the 101 and onto highway 1, it adds about 5 hours of driving time. If you ever drive the Californian coast, do not skip the lost coast. It was surreal, and felt just as the name alludes. We started on the route later in the day, mostly in the dark. After turning off the 101 you wind through steep channels and sharp curves, maxing out at about 40km/hr because the road twists so abruptly. There's no service for the most part and I honestly don't remember how long it took us to hit the coast because it was dark. This portion really felt as though we were travelling blindly and I was tired from the long driving day prior. We drove along the coast for a good while, then late into the night came upon a large pullout bordered by cliffs, steep but not very high, that dropped into the ocean below. A full moon and the milky way illuminated the endless expanse of ocean bordering our proposed camp spot. The lot was littered with other vans and cars, notably an ancient looking Winnebago with a large satellite dish on top. From within the front half of the camper, neon lights flashed and lingered adding vivid colour to the dark night around. They were emanating from a massive flatscreen TV visible through the worn and shuttered camper windows. Blake and I looked at one another mystified. Another traveler came and spoke briefly to B, he was friendly and we figured it was a good place to sleep.

We woke early and looking around in the morning light could now see that the Winnebago was spray painted black and was most definitely stationary. A spindly, dry-looking, makeshift garden lined by iron gates and rusty lawn ornaments sat between the RV and the ocean. An old Jeep Cherokee, lifted with off-roading tires, also spray painted black was parked next to the Winnebago. This in-between place for coastal travelers also appeared to be someone's out-of-the way home, the whole set up was striking. I didn't get a photo - it would have felt invasive, although part of me wishes I had. Natural and undeveloped, light sand coloured cliffs jutted out of the crystal blue ocean. The landscape was rough, rugged, and strikingly beautiful. It held an essence of purity.

After a light breakfast we continued on, hopeful for surf. Not too far down the road, while winding down a hill we spotted a peaky beach break below. I didn't love the looks of it, it was messy and looked to be on the heavier side. But before I could question it too much B was already suiting up and I figured that I was on this road trip to push myself. I'd say I'm a competent surfer, by no means a great surfer, but I love it and I love pushing myself in the surf. Progressing, and learning to surf bigger and more challenging waves is a big motivator of mine. There was a decent current sweeping southward down the beach and a crab trap that you had to avoid right on the inside, it all just seemed a bit sketchy. I got out a bit after Blake, feeling underconfident. Even though the surf wasn't actually anything crazy it was pitchy and shifty, the drops had power but the wave was actually quite mellow. I think it was more so the physical isolation and unpredictability of the surf that had me on edge. Being unsettled, I told B that I'd get one wave and go in and that's exactly what I did. After a couple half-hearted paddle ins I took a left and the drop shot me down the line. Short but sweet I ran back to the van. Any non-surfers reading may not know, but all surf spots have names and I'm sure this one holds many; given by the various travelers that stumble upon it. We decided to call it Winnebago Point for ourselves, as if commemorating the surrealness of the last 12 hours on the lost coast and the feelings about the place that we couldn't quite put words to.

The next place we stumbled upon was largely accidental, and its definitely a place that I hope to visit again. I got the vibe that its a place people don't love others naming, and although I doubt it would matter for the purposes of this blog I admire the part of surfing that desires to keep special places less known. Another surfer from the area, suspicious but still welcoming of us, seeing our Canadian license plates and boards atop the cars, asked how we'd found it. It really was by chance - I think we'd needed gas, a place to eat lunch and were jonesing for a shower. I hadn't had one since Washington, and I'd spotted it this spot on the map, so we cut off the 1. It felt and looked Mediterranean, sharp cliff faces enclosed the tucked in cove in which a small pier sat. It was a quaint marina and there was a pizza joint oddly enough, and a couple little fishing boats sat adjacent to the pier. Being so sheltered the water was far calmer than where we had just surfed an hour or two before and a perfect little longboard left broke on the south side of the pier. The marina had token showers and feeling sticky and salty I sought out the dockman. Dressed like a fisherman I found him not far, his name was Doug and he had soft rounded features with kind eyes. He was happy and told me that he used to surf, but doesn't anymore because of a bad shoulder. He said that on the north side of the cove a big right breaks that holds perfect 20ft faces. He said that an old Mavericks charger lived atop the hill bordering the cove, and that when it broke he came down with a gun to surf it. I pictured a gladiator going to battle, in this natural coliseum carved from cliff faces, swathed by the water.

For my non-surfers, Mavericks is an infamous big wave just outside of San Francisco. A level of surfing that I could never fathom achieving, and a "gun" is a long surfboard designed for waves of that magnitude. A "charger" is slang for someone crazy enough to surf waves like that.

Doug's description seemed unreal, but the place carried such an energy with it that I knew he was telling the truth. I'd describe his energy to be that of a guardian of a sacred place.

Doug let me shower for free, and afterwards feeling hungry but reeling from the morning surf B and I couldn't resist the perfect peeling left so we hopped straight back in the water. A fun, mellow surf and a good lunch sent us on our way to find some gas. I can't recall where we found a gas station but we rolled up alongside at least 20 dirt bikes and motorcycles, they swarmed the gas station basically boxing my van in. Engines spitting and whirring as more bikes tore down the streets, it was dusty and desolate, I felt like I were in the movie mad max. Once again B and I looked at each other mystified by the whole experience.

I often find myself searching for and enamored with the mysticism present around us, I seek it out. I crave the experiences, places, and modes of life that hold me in the present and connect me to the ethereal and uncommon feelings of the conscious experience. When I stray from these states, I struggle. When I find them, I feel at home.

Although we had surfed twice and the day was getting late, the lost coast had lifted the sluggishness of long driving days so I felt energized and refreshed. We flew through a few more beach towns before we hit San Francisco at night. The city was busy and loud, it felt too big and too crowded in that moment, a stark contrast to where we had just been the days prior. My slow van felt overwhelmed on the highway, headlights whizzing past, instead of staying to see the city we drove right through. We ran with the energy and clarity given to us by the lost coast, all the way to Santa Cruz.