“Welcome home,” he moaned.

Went surfing yesterday, if you can call it that. We got to the beach and it started raining. The waves were rubble, small and choppy. We drove to three spots and then decided to hike in to a place we’d never tried: a half mile down to the beach on a steep, switchback trail. I stepped in dog shit along the way. When we got to the “desolate” location we noticed three surfers walking up from the direction of a parking lot on the next beach over. Their clothes probably stayed nice and dry inside their car. So we paddled out into the 2-foot slop. The water was a freezing yellowish green concoction with dead birds and other debris floating on the surface. I felt like an olive floating in a very dirty martini.

Surprisingly, we actually all caught a few waves, not that they were good. They were mostly closeouts though and sections were really tough to make. I caught maybe two where I rode a short distance, bottom turned, top turned, went straight as the lip collapsed. The slippery hike back up the sloppy slope would have made Sisyphus drop his rock and cry for mammy.

After we drove home, we unloaded our equipment and I accidentally switched boards with Nash, who has the same board bag as me. Welcome home indeed. I think my next entry will be about Mexico again.


This Oregon surf is enough to make a man want to take up fishing...

Wiley - "Pick U R Self Up"