The Lost Days of San Diego.

Sunset Cliffs.


From Dogtown to Mission Beach

It was a period when Santa Monica Bay was being dubbed one of the most polluted surfing areas in the world, the late 1970’s and early 80’s. These were formative years for me and a handful of my cronies from West Los Angeles and Santa Monica. They were the years when we went from kids to teenagers, and became surfers. Growing up in the congestion of L.A. was not simple or easy. Our escape from the crowded and sometimes violent neighborhoods of our youth was a swath of coastline in south Santa Monica infamously known as Dogtown. We learned to surf just off Ocean Park Blvd., not more than 100 yards from the burned-down remains of the once hopping POP Pier. It was both a scary and an exciting time in L.A. To us, older, radical surfers like Nathan Pratt, Allen Sarlo, Jay Adams, and the McClure brothers were like gods, the legendary Malibu points were Mecca, and street gangs comprised of nearly every imaginable ethnicity were the source of many a nightmare. San Diego was regarded as a paradise, full of perfect surf and free from many of the problems that harassed us in our daily lives.
It was in 1985, when at the age of 16, after my good friend Eric Holland and I were jumped and badly beaten by a gang of motorcycle punk-rockers (that apparently did not like surfers), that I vowed to leave L.A. A year later, I received my ticket out: an acceptance letter from San Diego State University. The idea to head south was contagious, and it wasn’t long before there was a small crew of ex-Angelenos living in inexpensive shacks on the boardwalk in Mission Beach, San Diego. The list included radical goofy footer Mike “M-Dog” Neustein, distinguished by his red hair and fair skin; the soulful charger Eric Holland; talented stylist Tom Cowley; wildman Soren Mitchell from Pacific Palisades; musician and devout non-conformist Quinn Haber; and regular visitors escaping the sloppy beachbreaks of S.M., like hot switch footer Jay Appleton, and his brother Bowen.
One classic beachfront cottage stands out above the rest. It was a tiny one bedroom located at the end of San Jose Place in Mission Beach, where the street collided with the boardwalk and troubles washed away into the Pacific. We slept on the floor and lived off canned beans, peanut butter, and pasta. Cockroaches inhabited much of the kitchen, but we didn’t seem to mind. We were there for the surf, to eat, sleep, breathe, and I guess smoke, the Pacific. When large swells hit, the walls would shake, and strong northwest winds blew sand in through the windows. We surfed two to three times per day on average, regardless of conditions. Though more often than not, we found conditions to be quite favorable. In fact, the waves we began to surf on a regular basis were far better than the vast majority of our surfing experiences in L.A., except for perhaps those classic days at Malibu and points north. Yes, for the time being this was paradise.
Most of us also went to school, although not everyone graduated. My five years at SDSU did in fact earn me a college degree, though perhaps more importantly, it gave me invaluable experience and knowledge in regards to the vast surfing arena of San Diego County. An arena which would become my home for many years to come.
We surfed everywhere: from nearby South Mission Jetty to Pacific Beach Point. We regularly headed north to La Jolla and got to know spots like Bird Rock and Horseshoes. We surfed the reefs in Del Mar, and ventured on occasion to North County to surf spots like Swami’s and Cardiff Reef. One region, however, stood out far above the rest—Sunset Cliffs—with its seemingly endless array of beautiful waves reeling off below tall bluffs. The southern end of the Cliffs offered more promise of surfing near-perfect, empty surf than possibly any other spot in San Diego during the late 1980’s, except for perhaps the Tijuana Sloughs.
Sometimes the best surf was right out in front. During the handful of years that we spent in Mission Beach the sandbars were working nicely, often producing long rights and lefts up to about a foot overhead. Much bigger and it tended to close out. However, there were indeed those mornings when we were blessed with large, clean surf a few steps beyond the comfort of our living rooms. On one such day, I shared them with a single friend and a pod of dolphins that stayed with us for nearly half an hour, surfing beside us on waves up to four feet overhead.

Oceanfront Living

Mission Beach was a wild place in the 1980’s. The boardwalk ban on alcohol had not yet been initiated, and huge parties were a frequent happening. College students, surfers, vagrants, and ex-hippies all intermingled. Drunkenness was a common nightly scene, as was the sound of someone urinating or vomiting in front of our house at 3:00 a.m. The area was also a haven for Vietnam vets and acid heads left over from the 60’s and 70’s. Two such characters, Guy and Cricket, carried their guitars with them wherever they went and pumped out psychedelic tunes and Grateful Dead hits. Both could be seen daily riding their Schwinn Cruisers up and down the boardwalk or sleeping on the grass by the old roller coaster. Guy spoke often about seeing UFO’s off the coast in the early morning hours.
As for surfers, young shredders like Justin Poston appeared on the scene and Hawaiian rippers like Sunny Garcia were rumored to have been hanging around as well.
On the other side of life were two very interesting old men. The first, known only as Martin, lived in an oceanfront apartment. Martin, gray and bearded, spent his days on a blanket in the sand surrounded by seagulls, scribbling mysterious writings into his journal. A man of vast spiritual depth and wisdom, Martin would impart his philosophies to anyone willing to sit beside him and listen. This small, gentle man had been living on a diet consisting almost exclusively of raw fruits, nuts, and vegetables for the better part of the last 50 years, and claimed he had reached a state of living where he was no longer susceptible to the common cold. He believed the fresh, salt air blown in from onshore winds was extremely healthy, and felt surfers were indeed a special breed. I spent many hours talking with Martin on the beach and in his home, and regularly shared his teachings to many surfed-out comrades. The details about Martin’s death in the mid-1990’s were very unclear, and today much about his life is still shrouded in mystery.
Then there was—and still is—Dr. Charles Magel, aka Charley, author and retired philosophy professor from Moorhead State University. Charley was the first professor to teach an animal rights course in the U.S. A friend of Martin’s, he too lived on the oceanfront, and spent his days reading and appreciating the sunshine and beauty of life at the beach. Charley, a man who decades ago embraced Albert Schweitzer’s concept of Reverence for Life, was also a devout vegetarian. He spent much of his time creating elaborate cactus gardens in the narrow space between his front windows and the boardwalk. As living proof of a life lived in health and balance by the sea, Charley is 82 years young and going strong. He still lives in the same house on the boardwalk, tends to his cacti, and walks several miles every day.
With the influence of Charley and Martin, and the inspiration provided by the ocean, its ever-changing moods, its sheer beauty and mystery, my small group of friends and I were ushered down a rich pathway filled with self-examination and spiritual discovery. We began to see surfing as a truly cosmic experience, a union of man and sea, human being and nature, an art form that was leading us to a transcendent oneness with life.
A final element that defined us as surfers and seekers was Baja. Southern California’s last frontier, with its secluded, perfect point breaks, was at our fingertips. We journeyed regularly throughout the craggy, Mexican peninsula, searching for freedom and perfect waves, and were rewarded with empty, dreamy point surf on many a winter’s swell. The escape to Baja, however, was not always convenient, so as San Diego crowds increased, the surfer seeking solitude had to be creative.

The Late Mission Beach Soul Surfer: Keith Noel

The late 1980’s were a strange period in all of Southern California. The decade had taken surfing from subculture to mainstream. The stereotypical surfer had gone from 70’s long-haired outcast, to 80’s yuppie materialist. By the time I left L.A. in 1986, the surfing car of choice was the VW Jetta with surf racks. Surfers with new wave hairdos and neon colored boards zipped up and down the Malibu coast searching not for solitude, but for stardom. The goal was not to find a personal paradise, but to shred and to be seen doing it.
Though San Diego has more than its share of high performance spots, it also has a tremendous depth of surf culture and history, as well as long-time legends like Skip Frye, who keep alive the spirit of soul surfing. One such legendary cat was Keith Noel.
Keith lived near the corner of Mission Blvd. and San Jose Place, about five houses down from our boardwalk shack. Having been born and raised in Mission Beach, Keith had been surfing the South Mission Jetty longer than any of us had been alive. He surfed it nearly every day, as was reflected by his childhood nickname, the Jetty Kid. A surfer to the core, Keith had converted his small home into a used clothing shop by the name of Keith’s Klothes Kastle. He specialized in original, silk Hawaiian shirts, but sold surf shorts, trunks, and tees as well. It was a humble living, but it afforded him the freedom he needed. When the surf was happening, Keith simply closed shop and hit the waves. Often we woke to Keith pounding on our door at 6:00 a.m., inviting us to join him for a morning session. With a messy head of hair, an old Hawaiian shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, checkered Vans tennis shoes, two different colored socks, and either an early 60’s skateboard or a glow in the dark yo-yo in his hands, Keith was always an odd sight to behold at first light.
Krazy Keith schooled us college boys in soul, and had us riding old single-fins and occasionally longboards during a period when most young surfers were riding hot new tri-fins. We hung out at the Kastle on many surfed-out evenings, watching classic Hal Jepsen videos and soulful shortboard films like Greg Huglin and George Greenough’s Fantasea.
Keith was a grown-up kid who often filled his days with an array of pranks, gags, and crazy skits, in and out of the water. One such skit found its way into the surf film Blazing Boards. In the film, Keith enters into Mitch’s Surf Shop, comes out with a naked mannequin, gets busted by a cop, and says something like: “But officer, I was only trying to go bodysurfing.” To watch that clip is to see Keith as he really was.
In the water, he was often just as bizarre. He screamed maniacally in excitement during every session, and hooted at friends on nearly every wave they caught. Sometimes he was so ridiculously loud that it became obnoxious. Yet he never cared. He simply laughed like a madman and paddled for as big of a wave as he could find. His oddest habit was shouting “Number 9” at the top of his lungs whenever a set approached. I never figured out what he meant by it, but it had something to do with the introduction of a Beatles song. I remember hearing him scream it on huge, crowded days both at the Jetty and the Cliffs as heaving sets approached and people scratched to get over them. The puzzled looks on peoples’ faces were hilarious. The souls who can get away with that degree of silliness are few and far between, but Keith was one such man.
Keith was not a small man, but a big guy who loved to charge big surf. The largest swells of the year were the ones he enjoyed most. In his younger years, he had surfed Pipeline; lived in Biarritz, France; spent a handful of winters in Santa Cruz; and continued to charge huge Todos Santos when he felt like it. He did indeed have a quiet side.
Sadly, Keith Noel passed away in the spring of 1995 at the age of 45. His ashes were scattered Hawaiian-style into the ocean at South Mission Jetty. Skip Frye likened him to an old Jedi knight as some sixty surfers formed a circle in the water, held hands, and shared thoughts about Keith.
Keith lived a humble life, centered not around money or stardom, but around the ocean. Those who knew him learned valuable lessons: to appreciate the simple things; to treasure the opportunity of hanging out with friends and riding waves; to never lose your zeal for life; and to let humor and excitement go with you wherever you go. Though Keith’s Klothes Kastle is only a memory now, whenever my surfing journeys bring me back to Mission Beach, I am fondly reminded of his maniacal call: “Number 9!” The Jetty Kid Surf Kontest was established in Keith’s honor and is held annually at the Jetty.

Ralph’s and Little Waimea

By 1989, my small band of ex-Dogtown friends and I had become quite familiar with the San Diego surf scene. Accordingly, we began to notice that crowds were thickening both in and out of the water. Tourists clad in neon clothing littered the boardwalk all year long. They stared at us through our living room windows as they walked by, gawking and pointing as if we were zoo animals on display. Spots like Swami’s and Cardiff Reef were more consistently being referred to as Swarmi’s and Crowdiff Reef by surfers throughout the county. Little did we know this was the beginning of a population explosion that would continue exponentially for the next decade, eventually causing freeway gridlock, soaring real estate prices, and turning San Diego beach towns into some of the most expensive and desirable communities in the world. The extent of this population eruption is incomprehensible. In summer 2002, I tracked license plates from 34 different states in the once sleepy beach town of Leucadia in North County. The majority of these out of state visitors were new surfers seen in the small parking lot of a local surf break.
If we knew back in the 1980’s how unbelievably crowded and expensive the area was to become, we would have savored every moment. The time before this population explosion I now refer to as “the lost days,” when for some, San Diego was still a fabled paradise where one could surf the beautiful waves of one’s dreams with simply a few close friends. Though indeed such experiences are not beyond reach, but simply require more creativity and diligence in the congestion of today.
So it’s 1989 and large swells and increasing crowds have sent us trekking further and further along the southern end of Sunset Cliffs, beyond Ab’s and Newbreak, looking for our own waves. Some days we score, other days we find the surf not quite as clean as some of the more premier spots at the Cliffs. It was then that Eric Holland and I began to get adventurous.
We had long heard of Ralph’s, the epic right point break around the tip of Point Loma. Unfortunately, land access to the point and surrounding breaks was closed due to U.S. Government and military restrictions. The only surfers were those who boated in and anchored offshore. On an initial inspection during a swell in early fall, Eric and I smoothly drove onto federal property via a road which permits public access to visit Cabrillo National Monument. With further exploration, we found a side road winding down the cliffs to a small parking lot overlooking the ocean. At that point, we witnessed that one of the spots offshore, Dolphin Tanks, was going off. It was a Sunset Cliffs quality wave, without a soul riding it. We were stunned. Casually, we left his gray, rusty Toyota Corolla wagon and began to hike around the area. Signs pointed to a trail winding down the bluffs to a tide pool. Though armed government police rigorously patrolled the parking lot and surrounding facilities, and U.S. Park Rangers monitored the tide pools and trails, the area did indeed permit limited public access on designated trails only. All other areas and buildings, including access to the ocean, were strictly off limits.
From behind a fence posted with signs reading “No Trespassing, Government Property,” we watched a solid head high wave peak up and begin to reel in both directions. Another wave followed. Far outside, at the outermost tip of Point Loma, a large set loomed. It looked a good quarter mile offshore from our perspective. Our mouths dropped as we watched a series of beautiful rights feather off in the dreamy distance. Not a one was ridden.
That evening in Mission Beach, we shared with a few select friends what we had witnessed. Keith Noel informed us that the mysto right far offshore was known as Little Waimea. He speculated that due to the direction of the swell, Ralph’s, located around the tip of Point Loma towards San Diego harbor, was probably about chest high and reeling.

Ditching the U.S. Park Rangers

As the surf continued to pump and we grew more weary from competing for surf at increasingly aggressive spots, we decided it was time for a bit of adventure. After all, we had left L.A. to get away from tension. It was the last thing we wanted to experience in San Diego.
One afternoon, Eric and I hopped into his wagon to give it a go. As we drove past the government officers at the kiosk and through the main gates, we smiled coolly. Our boards were in the back, covered with blankets. Our wetsuits were on, though hidden beneath baggy pants and thick flannel shirts in case we were stopped. By all appearances we were not surfers, but goofballs going to visit Cabrillo National Monument on a sunny afternoon. When we reached the parking lot down by the tide pools, we pulled out the binoculars. We scanned the area from inside the car, following the routes of the rangers on foot patrol and the government police. The area, as we had learned, was not only home to specially protected landscape, but U.S. Navy, Coast Guard, and highly guarded government facilities as well. Nonetheless, some twenty minutes later an opportunity presented itself. The government police had just made a visit and were now winding out of sight up the hill, and the two rangers were about one hundred yards away with their backs towards the lot, walking away from us along one of the bluff-top trails. We pulled off our clothes, stuffed them under the seats, grabbed our boards from the back, and bolted towards the sea.
Unfortunately, as we soon found out, it was not going to be easy. The trail down to the tide pools was far too obvious and a sure way to get caught. Instead, we headed towards the edge of the bluff where a fence separated the public access trail from off-limits government property. We slid our boards under a gap in the fence, swung ourselves over it, and began darting across an open field towards the lighthouse, a landmark that designated the outermost tip of Point Loma. We scurried low to the ground while we flew past a smattering of military barracks. Reaching the edge of the bluff, we quickly searched for a place to descend.
At that point things got easier. We were completely out of sight, with only the vast Pacific before us. We climbed down to the rocky shoreline below. It was quite a trek around the point to Ralph’s, and the strong currents at the tip didn’t favor the paddle, so we opted for the rock dance over large boulders. A good half-hour later, we reached the break and paddled out.
Ralph’s is by most standards a perfect right point set up. It sits amidst a grand landscape, where land and sea collide. Immense, sheer cliffs drop suddenly to reveal the striking blues of the Pacific and a rocky shoreline. Even if it were legal to reach from land, it would still be quite inaccessible. It sports dramatic natural views, and allows for close-up perspectives of massive ships and naval vessels moving in and out of the harbor.
This first session was nothing short of amazing. Shoulder high sets lurched up hollowly and then backed off into long peeling walls. Most waves had three separate bowl sections, each followed by a speeding wall. Not a wave closed out. Needless to say, we were stoked, and we surfed an epic point break all by ourselves in crowded Southern California.
Late that afternoon, after a long surf and hike back, we slipped into the car and fled without a trace. We had pulled it off.
Another session followed. Then another, and another. At times, we referred to the spots by different names, such as “Seals” for the friendly swimmers that inhabited the area, and “Mother Pearl” for the abalone found along the shoreline. We did this so that other surfers would not know the breaks that we were referring to when we sat around and shared stories of our surf escapades with neighbors. Though the seals indeed were harmless, Keith informed us that there were much more serious concerns in the deep, dark waters off the tip of Point Loma—sharks.
After a time, Eric and I began to have the set-up wired. We snuck in and out of there regularly and began logging quite an extensive amount of surf time. We would kick back in the evening, surfed-out and laughing, amazed at the waves we scored, while listening to buddies whine about the crowds at South Garbage or Pacific Beach Point. Naturally, others wanted to join in. On several occasions, we did indeed drag along a few of da boys.
Rarely did we find other surfers in the water. Those who boated in tended to do so on weekend mornings. Most of our sessions were weekday afternoons when the surf was up and we could count on the kelp keeping the breaks glassy.
As the weeks passed, things began to get more challenging. At the close of one session, as we sprinted passed the barracks and approached the parking lot, we spotted the park rangers camped out by our car. Before they noticed us, we slipped into a crevice in the bluff and hid—surfboards and all. Ours was the only vehicle in the parking lot, and since they could see no visitors in the vicinity, they had become quite curious as to our whereabouts. They circled the car, peeked in the windows, jotted down our license plate number, posed questions into their walkie-talkies, and looked around in a generally suspicious manner as we stood looking on with hearts thumping wildly. The gates were to lock at dusk—time was running out. Still, we held our ground, watched, and waited. As the sun began its descent, the rangers, appearing somewhat baffled, left the lot and embarked along the trail to survey the area one last time.
That was the break we needed, and we sprinted to the car, threw our boards in, and drove away. Unfortunately, we had left a bar of wax and a beach towel visible in the back. Our cover was blown, they were on to us. Surprisingly, we made it out without getting stopped.

A Close Call with the Law

At this point in the game, Eric and I knew our days were numbered. Thus, we decided that only on the largest of swells would it be worth the risk of getting busted.
Fall 1989 unfolded into winter and a new decade approached. Whenever a solid northwest swell pounded the coast and shook the walls of our Mission Beach cottage we thought of Ralph’s and Little Waimea. Though we proceeded cautiously, and spent many a session at local breaks with friends and crowds alike, still the occasional day came when we threw on our wetsuits, covered our boards, hopped into his beat-up wagon, and drove out to Point Loma.
Late one afternoon, as we headed blissfully home after surfing another overhead day at Little Waimea, the inevitable happened. Eric eyed flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Government police. We struggled to pull our clothes out from under the seats and cover our wetsuits, but it was useless. We were stopped before we reached the gates.
“This is it, we’re over with,” we moaned as the officer approached.
“What are you boys doing out here?” he demanded. “This here’s government property.”
“We’re just taking a drive, sir,” Eric offered, opting to play stupid. “We wanted to see the monument.”
“Let me see you driver’s license and registration,” he asked sternly. Eric rummaged through the glove box.
As we sat, butts clenched in fear, trying to act naturally, the officer realized that we were wearing our wetsuits.
“You fellas are wet. You didn’t go surfing out here, did you? Trespassing into the ocean is illegal around here. It’s a goddamn federal offense, boys.”
“We were surfing earlier,” I offered, “—at Sunset Cliffs. We got out of the water about an hour ago and drove out here.”
Surely he knows who we are, we thought. By now all of the rangers and government police must be looking for us, we imagined. Officer Kimrey (as his badge revealed) shook his head in disbelief.
“You mean to tell me you boys weren’t surfing out here?” he questioned again.
“No sir,” we lied. It was the most polite and convincing lie to slip from our tongues since sixth grade.
“Hmm,” muttered Kimrey. Though he wasn’t actually buying our story, he somehow decided to give us the benefit of the doubt. “Well, I’m gonna let you fellas go, but make sure I don’t ever catch you around here surfing. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” we chimed. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Holland,” he said, glancing down at Eric’s driver’s license, “you’re going to need this.”
That was it. We couldn’t believe it. He let us go. Thoughts flew through our minds. We wondered how and why we weren’t back at his car in handcuffs. We sighed in relief as we drove smoothly away.
That evening, as we reflected on the affairs of the day and exchanged stories of waves with a roomful of our buddies, it occurred to us that we had been given another chance. Though it was a narrow escape, we had not really been caught, we told them. Thus, by our reasoning, we had been given one more opportunity to surf the point.
“You guys are idiots,” howled Keith Noel, laughing. “Don’t do it again. Those government cops ‘ll skin you alive.”
“Yeah,” agreed M-Dog, “and they know your car—and your names.”
“Not mine,” I interjected.
“I ain’t bailing you fools outta jail,” M-Dog continued. Quinn played a few bars on the guitar. Amused by the whole situation, he could no longer hide the smirk on his face.
“You guys are just jealous,” Eric stated simply.
“Yep,” I agreed, “because you don’t have the balls to do it yourselves.”
“Okay, okay,” hummed Keith, “so you guys have pulled off a doozy. I’ll admit it’s one of the best local schemes I’ve heard about in a long time—perhaps even one of the best of the decade, but you guys have got to know when to quit, when you’re licked.”
Perhaps our friends were right and we should have stopped there and quit before we found ourselves in deeper trouble, but we couldn’t, we were addicted. Eric and I had become junkies for the solo soul surfing experience. The rush of adrenaline created by our little game of ditch-the-rangers only added to the whole experience. One thing was certain, we knew we would have to push the situation to the limit—and we had not reached it yet. There was still excellent, empty surf to be had just a handful of miles from our Mission Beach shack, and we were going to get it. If luck was on our side, we’d be able to milk out one more session. Indeed it would be risky, the odds were stacked against us. And though there was a good chance that we’d get busted before even reaching the water, there was also the possibility that we’d surf empty, classic waves one more time and return to tell the tale. Given the situation, we decided that we’d give it a while and wait… for the perfect day.

The Ultimate Session

The new year brought with it a new decade and the 80’s became a memory. In early 1990, rumors of a massive northwest swell began to circulate. It was to be the largest swell of the season. Eric and I hadn’t said anything about Point Loma for at least a few weeks, though it had been on our minds. And then it happened.
I came home from mid-day classes at SDSU, got off the bus on the corner near Keith’s house. As was customary, I dropped into the Kastle to say hello.
Keith was sitting behind his counter while a couple folks rummaged through clothing racks. On the wall behind him was a faded picture of Keith charging Pipe on a longboard in the mid-60’s.
“Surf’s huge, dude,” Keith began.
“How big?” I wondered.
“Big!” he answered. “Go look.”
As I approached the boardwalk, I saw large, looming walls stacked one behind the next. They feathered like Hawaiian waves, appearing to break slowly due to their massive size. Eric was standing atop the boardwalk wall looking out.
“It’s giant, Marsh,” he said.
“Anything rideable?” I asked.
“Not a thing. Total close-outs.”
Another set loomed. Thick blue walls rose and continued to rise before feathering and crashing down. I remember the sound of the waves and the look on Eric’s face as if it was yesterday. His face reflected the seriousness of the swell, his mouth straight, his eyes straining to see the sets behind the sets, the corduroy lines spanning the whole ocean and disappearing into the horizon.
Immersed in thought, we stood silently for the next several minutes, watching massive swells erupt onto the usually friendly shoreline in front of our house. It is common for waves of this magnitude to have such an effect on surfers. It’s a combination of fear, awe, and respect, and reflective of the gross and subtle mental ponderings and calculations taking place in the surfer’s mind. How big is it? Where’s the tide at right now? Where’s it going? What spots can handle this size swell? How crowded will they be? What about my boards—which one should I ride? I gotta eat something. Definitely need something in my stomach. Stretch out my body, loosen up for a few minutes. Yeah, I’m okay, I can do this. Man look at that set. How big is it?
I can’t remember who said it first or whether it was simultaneous or not, but somehow the name was sounded.
“Ralph’s.”
That’s all it took, and the feelings inside were almost unmanageable. It was the kind of intensity that makes your stomach tighten and has you running for the bathroom. Nonetheless, some fifteen minutes later we were on the way to Point Loma in his trusty jalopy.
Through the gates and down the hill without a single problem. Not one glimpse of the government police, or the rangers—yet. We were parked in the lower lot at the tide pools with about six other cars—tourists. Again we looked, scanning the area with binoculars. The rangers were nowhere to be seen.
This can’t be, we thought. It’s too easy. Sometimes when certain events coincide and you are in the right place at the right time, it can feel as if every force in the universe is synchronized about you. It is in these moments when you realize you are enmeshed in something truly remarkable. Though these moments may be happening on a regular basis in our daily lives, we often fail to realize and acknowledge them. It is when the outside factors are so definite and powerful that they demand our realization, that we become aware… aware of the remarkability of life, of synchronicity. To be gracefully enmeshed in this cosmic flow is a beautiful experience. Like Lopez said of his experiences at the Pipe, “It’s a cakewalk.” For him, during that era, based on the state of his consciousness, and the alignment of his physical and mental self, Pipeline, one of the most dangerous and powerful waves in the world, became for him a “cakewalk.” When Lopez dropped into a gaping, spinning Pipeline monster, it somehow became not only less monstrous but beautiful and artful. To this day, the images of soulful Gerry in 1970’s Pipeline are some of the most poetic and soulful images of the sport. Truly such a happening can indeed be considered mystical, perhaps spiritual.
Such was our entrance onto military land this day. Such was our exit from the car and our jaunt across the barracks by the lighthouse—a cakewalk. And we began paddling out to the outermost tip of Point Loma, to Little Waimea, to surf the largest waves I had ever seen in my life at that point in time. The idea that our actions were “illegal” was completely and undisputedly absurd to us at that time. We were surfers going to ride our ocean.
In the hours that followed, Eric and I rode Little Waimea at its finest. Big, endless walls, double overhead plus. To this day, even after trips around the globe, it remains one of the most magical sessions of my life. As one macking set came through, Eric caught the first wave and I the next. As I glided along this double overhead reeler in the middle of the bay, I paused to watch Eric’s soulful carves a good 60 yards inside of me. The view from land must have been amazing. Unfortunately, the rangers and government police did not share in our amusement as they stood far away in the distant parking lot by the wagon, waiting for our return.
Unconcerned with the authorities on land, Eric and I surfed through the afternoon, even watching the sun go down from the water. It was simply too perfect to leave. When at last we caught our final waves, climbed up the cliff, strolled casually by the military barracks and negotiated the final fence to return to the parking lot, we were greeted by some very angry men. The rangers and government officers that had been tracking us for months, and who today had waited for us until after sundown to return to the parking lot, were out of patience.
Our minds, however, were on the waves we had surfed, and the incredible shades of color in the sky. Streaks of pink and orange deepened as the glow of dusk bathed the golden hills of Point Loma. Perfectly relaxed and blissfully surfed out, we were in no mood to play hide and seek. We knew we were busted and we didn’t seem to mind. This fabulous session was the finale, and we were willing to take whatever consequences would be dealt before us.
There it was, our lone, gray wagon sitting in the parking lot surrounded by two government police cars and the familiar park rangers. Busted. We strolled up to the car, looked at the officers and said, “Okay, you’ve got us. Do whatever you have to do, guys.”
I’m not sure if our relaxed demeanor softened the situation or made things worse. One angry government cop threatened to confiscate our boards and take us immediately into federal custody. Though demands and threats were made, in the end the officers were met with no resistance whatsoever. Eric simply set his board down in the parking lot and sat down on the ground beside it.
Dusk melted into the encroaching darkness, and the officers had work to do, gates to close, and families to return to. We didn’t end up leaving Point Loma that afternoon in the back of a cop car, nor without our boards. On the contrary, it was the first time in all our months of surfing the breaks of the area that we actually had the opportunity to change out of our wetsuits and drive home dry and comfortable.
That beautiful winter’s day, on the heels of the 1980’s and the threshold of another decade now gone, Eric and I shared some of the longest, biggest, and most perfect waves we had ever surfed. And though we cruised our way back to Mission Beach, up San Jose Place, past the Kastle and to the boardwalk, with federal citations in our pockets and facing possible jail time, we couldn’t keep ourselves from grinning.
Our stint with the surf breaks of Point Loma was over. In a federal court some months later, we were hit with steep fines for repeated trespassing onto government property and eluding federal authorities. No jail time was served.

The Lost Days

During summer 1990, Eric moved north to the cold water and extreme surf of Humboldt County, a place where he would find his niche until this day. Another buddy, Steve Hodge, moved into the shack with me. Graduation in 1991 split us all up. Steve is now living and surfing in Bolinas, where he saved a young surfer’s life by helping to pull him from the water after a white shark attacked last spring. M-Dog is in Maui; Quinn has an apartment in Ocean Beach, San Francisco; Jay Appleton is on the “big island.” I found my niche in Leucadia, where I spent the next 11 years of my life. During those years, I surfed Ralph’s only once, when I boated out there with a buddy. Of our original Dogtown crew, none returned permanently to L.A.
Though the days of ditching the rangers and surfing perfect, empty point waves in San Diego are long gone for me, the memories are oh so sweet. And though I refer to those days as “the lost days,” they are indeed not lost, but accessible for those who can think ahead of the pack and have the courage to take risks. Such a dream is still attainable, even in the midst of one of the worlds most expensive and rapidly growing cities. Happy adventures.