Trespassers shall be Rewarded: Tales from Point Loma

Part 1: Breakin’ the Law

"Get down, dude," Eric gasped as we reached the top of the bluff. The parking lot and his beat-up jalopy surf wagon waited just beyond, surrounded by park rangers and armed government police. We dropped suddenly to the ground and slid into a crevice, our boards lying flat beside us, our wetsuits now caked with the golden dust of the Point Loma cliffs. "Cops, bro, they’re crawling around the wagon," he whispered. "Shit," I muttered. "We’re busted." We slithered further out of their field of vision. Eric softened into the earth, his 7’2" tri-fin still beaded with ocean droplets from another classic session at Ralph’s, an epic right point break in the heart of San Diego. "Hang tight," he droned. It was December 1989. We were blissed-out, twenty-one year old surfers, seeking freedom when social pressures demanded our conformity. Stoned on surfing and our "perfect" plan, we were wild and untamable, certain the authorities would never catch us. Had it all gone awry? I pulled my long, sun-bleached hair back from my face, rested my cheek against the earth, and wondered if I would soon be behind bars. Earlier that fall, Eric and I had become fed up with San Diego surfing conditions. The line-ups at our favorite spots were insanely overcrowded. We were tired of competing for waves. We needed silence in the water—emptiness—to taste that pure experience of surfer and sea. While we sought a deep state of soulful glide with Mama Ocean, we instead strained to hear her roars amidst the chatter of wannabe superstars. Something had to be done. We were trapped and needed to break free—this was survival. So we devised a plan. It was a risky charade that the late Keith Noel, a local legend and old friend of Skip Frye’s, called "the best local scheme in a decade." Our scheme involved trespassing onto restricted U.S. government and military property to surf San Diego’s legendary, off-limits, Point Loma coast. While select surfers boated out to the breaks, we studied and tracked the routes of park rangers and government police, watched them from hidden vantage points via binoculars, and repeatedly eluded them, skirting through fence gaps amidst military barracks to reach the breaks from land. The Point Loma coast is a soul surfer’s dream, a natural wilderness of immense cliff and rocky shoreline dusted with spectacular waves. Though it sits amidst San Diego harbor with U.S. Navy and Coast Guard bases, it has remained a place of hidden beaches frequented by dolphins and seals, sporting two of San Diego’s best surf spots, Ralph’s and Little Waimea. Ralph’s is a secluded right point break. Little Waimea is a deepwater wave lying at the outermost tip of Point Loma. It sets up into one of the longest right-handers in the county on huge northwest swells. Another spot, Dolphin Tanks, lies straight out in front of the tidepools below Cabrillo National Monument, an area allocated for limited public use. It was here, at the tidepool parking lot, where Eric’s surf wagon was waiting for us. Crawling from our hidden crevice in the bluff, I poked my head up for a look. There were two park rangers and three government cops. They gazed around in a desperate, suspicious manner, peeked in the windows of the jalopy, and jotted down bits of information. I watched for a moment and then tucked back down to give Eric the update. Surf and skate rats born and raised in West L.A. and bred on the beach breaks of Santa Monica, Eric Holland and I bailed the dirty streets of Dogtown in the mid-1980’s. We headed to Mission Beach where we thrived on San Diego surfing, ate canned beans and peanut butter, and slept on the floor of our dilapidated, cockroach-infested beach shack. We were kings, surfing three times per day. The Point Loma plan was a perfect creation, a feral offspring, birthed from our need for freedom and adventure. It wasn’t just about escaping crowds and surfing perfect waves; it was about walking the edge with these ranger dudes and tight-assed cops. It was about claiming what was ours, our youth, our ocean. It was about resisting the structures that wanted to destroy our spirits and turn us into robots. And though our "perfect" plan was a bold expression of freedom, trespassing on government property was an offense that could land us in jail. Rumors circulated of a few surfers who served federal jail time in the 1970’s for attempting what we were doing. But we were Dogtowners, and for us there was nothing sweeter than surfing empty waves and ditching the law to pull it all off. "I’ll check it out, Marsh," Eric hummed as he lifted his head for a peek. "Dude, they’re bailin’," he said in amazement. I crept up beside him to watch the baffled authorities give up hope and return to their duties. The government cops drove away and the rangers scattered on foot patrol, presumably looking for us. When the coast was clear, we bolted to the jalopy, threw our boards in, and sped away. I scanned the surroundings while Eric raced up the winding road towards the exit gate. Our intense silence exploded into laughter as we shot past the military gate into safety.

Part 2: Mission Beach Surf Junkies

Stoked that we had logged another session and escaped—again—without ending up in handcuffs, Eric and I bragged to a few buddies who gathered that evening at the shack. Stories of peeling blue walls aflame with golden sunlight pulsed through the smoke-filled room. "I still can’t believe we got out of there," said Eric, strumming through the pages of an old surf mag. "But your cover’s blown—you guys are over with," countered Keith Noel, a crooked grin smeared across his forty-year-old face. With his plaid Bermuda shorts, different colored socks, and checkered Vans, Keith celebrated himself as a true social outcast. "Not even, Keith," I injected, barefoot and slumped back in a ratty, living room chair. "C’mon, Marsh," scoffed M-Dog, another ex-Dogtowner and red-hot goofy footer. "They know the wagon—and they’ve almost caught you guys twice now," he added, referring to a previous incident where we had actually been pulled over by government cops after a session but amazingly released. "Think about it," I offered, "we haven’t actually been busted yet. We’ve got a green light to do it again." Eric nodded in agreement. "You guys are idiots," howled Keith Noel, laughing. He threw his hands up in disbelief. "Don’t do it again. Those government cops ‘ll skin you alive—and I ain’t bailing you fools outta jail," he foamed, fiddling with his freaky 1970’s retro moustache. "You guys are just jealous," Eric stated simply. "Okay, okay," Keith admitted, "so you guys have pulled off a doozy, but you’ve got to know when to quit, when you’re licked. Face it! It’s fucking over!" Eric’s gaze rose from the pages of his surf mag. "Not yet, man," he muttered. Perhaps our friends were right and we should have quit before we found ourselves in deeper trouble, but we couldn’t. We had become junkies for the solo, soul surfing experience. The rush of adrenaline created by our game of "ditch the law" only added to the whole experience. One thing was certain, we would have to push our plan to the limit—and we hadn’t reached it yet. There was excellent, empty surf to be had and we were going after it. Indeed it would be risky, the odds were against us. 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 classic waves one more time and return to tell the tale. We decided that we’d let things cool off for a while, and wait for the perfect day.

Part 3: Surfer and Sea

The New Year came and the 1980’s drifted into history. In January 1990, a massive northwest swell began to pound the coast. Eric and I stood atop the boardwalk wall in front of the shack, gazing out at the surf. "It’s giant, Marsh," he said as we watched tall blue walls approach, stacked one behind the next. They feathered like Hawaiian waves, appearing to break slowly due to their size. This was the day we had waited for and that afternoon we were on our way to Point Loma in the wagon. Our boards were in the back, covered with blankets. We wore our wetsuits beneath baggy pants and flannel shirts in case we were stopped. By all appearances we were not surfers, but goons going to visit Cabrillo National Monument. With hearts thumping wildly, we drove coolly past the government officers at the kiosk and through the main gates. We’re in! So far, so good. Upon first sight of the ocean we were treated to a view of huge, wrapping corduroy lines spanning the vast Pacific and climaxing at the tip of Point Loma into some of the longest right handers we had ever seen. Little Waimea was doing its thing on one of the heaviest ground swells of the season. The intensity was unbearable. Adrenaline was pumping through our bodies and we were scared as much from the sight of the large waves as we were from the thought of going to jail. We soared down the hill to the parking lot by the tidepools. Eric parked the jalopy as nonchalantly as possible while I pulled out the binoculars and scanned the area from inside the car. "Ranger One is about a quarter mile to the north," I reported, "walking away from us. Ranger Two shit I can’t find him, man." Eric exhaled deeply. "What about cops?" "Not around, bro," I answered hurriedly. "I can’t see ‘em anywhere. We’re clear." "Alright, Marsh," Eric offered, "we’ve just got to make it to the water—and we’re home free." We pulled off our clothes, stuffed them under the seats, and jumped out of the jalopy in our wetsuits. Grabbing our boards from the back, we bolted towards the sea— surfers — criminals—with seven-foot fiberglass tri-fins. We sprinted across the parking lot to the edge of the bluff where a fence separated the public access trail from government property. We slid our boards under a gap in the fence, swung ourselves over it, and darted across an open field towards the lighthouse and the outermost tip of Point Loma. Perhaps the law had seen us already, or spotted the wagon—we didn’t know. Scurrying low to the ground, we flew past a smattering of military barracks until we reached land’s end and dropped out of sight. After several minutes of climbing down the cliff and negotiating the boulder-strewn shoreline, we reached the water’s edge and paused to catch our breath. Little Waimea was pumping! Mounds of whitewater tumbled towards the shore. Legal concerns vanished. We had arrived the point, a huge swell, us and our boards the purity and simplicity of surfer and sea. This was the freedom we sought. We had pushed our plan to the limit and here before us was the reward. After a long, difficult paddle out, Eric and I reached the line-up and began to ride Little Waimea with soulful grace. We glided like pelicans across walls of water more than twice our size, each wave reeling on for several hundred yards. As one of the biggest sets of the day came through, Eric caught the first wave and I the next. As I flew along this beautiful wave in the middle of the bay, I paused to watch Eric’s smooth carves a good 60 yards inside of me. The idea of our actions being "illegal" was completely absurd to us. We were surfers riding our ocean. Unconcerned with the authorities on land, Eric and I surfed through the afternoon and watched the sunset from the water. It was too perfect to leave. 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. Unsurprisingly, 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. Busted. Though somehow we didn’t mind. Our thoughts 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 hills of Point Loma. Perfectly relaxed and blissfully surfed out, we were in no mood to play hide and seek. We knew this fabulous session was the finale and we were willing to take whatever consequences would be dealt before us. We strolled up to the car and came face to face with the law. "Okay, you’ve got us," Eric said humbly. "Do whatever you guys have to do." Outraged and shaking with fury, one government cop threatened to confiscate our boards and take us immediately into federal custody. Eric set his board down on the ground and sat down beside it. I followed suit as they searched the jalopy, perhaps hoping to get us on drug charges as well. Though demands and threats were made, we met the officers with no resistance whatsoever. Dusk melted into 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, or 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 changed out of our wetsuits and drove home dry and comfortable. That beautiful winter’s day, Eric and I shared some of the most perfect waves we had ever surfed. And though we cruised our way back to our Mission Beach shack with federal citations in our pockets and facing possible jail time, we couldn’t keep ourselves from grinning. 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.