Having left the campsite, we continued driving down Highway 1 and did some further surf shop expeditions to scope out boards for Will, who was desperately eager to hit the Pacific surf! The visits soon revealed news of a surf competition taking place at the local beach; we jumped in Spot and burned our way to Steamer Lane Break to watch the heats for the O'Neill Cold Water Classic contest. After a few fleeting dream moments, we realized we probably weren't experienced enough to participate and carried on South to a campsite near Capitola. We got settled in, cooked up some salmon on the campfire and planned the next day.
The next morning was an early start, more down to environmental conditions rather than choice. Despite its reputation as a sun kissed state of warmth, it became apparent that California gets pretty bloody cold in the October nights. We awoke, freezing cold, and set about assembling some breakfast to get us set up for the day; Mike had yet more commissioned work to do while Tom and Will had a foreboding day of bumming about on the beach. Mike, feeling decidedly lonely gave a heartfelt request to spend the day with Spot, who gave a squeak of enthusiasm at the idea (Spot doesn't surf either)
It was decided: Mike and Spot drove off towards the nearest Starbucks for a day of coffee and work, leaving Tom and Will eating dust in the rear view mirror with a 4 hour trek ahead of them into Santa Cruz. The two used the leisurely walking pace to stop and soak up the surf community culture along the coast. Generations of surfers were beachside hitting the blissful breaks dotted along the beautiful Pacific vistas all the way into town. It was clear from the relaxed pace, experienced board handling and complete lack of hair that these dudes had been surfing here for a long time.
As the silhouettes of rollercoastes confirmed the upcoming boardwalk, the allure of the cool waves gently washing ashore grew too much and like small girls near a paddling pool, the two skipped into the water for a bit of a paddle. After some splashing and squealing they spent the rest of the day wandering around Santa Cruz hopping from surf shop to surf shop, picking up custom fins for Will's yet unconfirmed Surf Board.
After a few falafels over-looking a volleyball game on the beach, more shopping was in order! Tom promptly acquired a 'Santa cruz screaming hand' t-shirt, a brand made for the city by infamous graphic designer, Jim phillips. A brief wander down the pier resulted in the multi faceted benefits of bumping into a Brazilian fisherman named Paolo, who not only supplied fascinating insights into the world of fishing, but also provided the super-hungry, super-poor team with dinner: Freshly caught fish (of some sort).
It was decided: Mike and Spot drove off towards the nearest Starbucks for a day of coffee and work, leaving Tom and Will eating dust in the rear view mirror with a 4 hour trek ahead of them into Santa Cruz. The two used the leisurely walking pace to stop and soak up the surf community culture along the coast. Generations of surfers were beachside hitting the blissful breaks dotted along the beautiful Pacific vistas all the way into town. It was clear from the relaxed pace, experienced board handling and complete lack of hair that these dudes had been surfing here for a long time.
As the silhouettes of rollercoastes confirmed the upcoming boardwalk, the allure of the cool waves gently washing ashore grew too much and like small girls near a paddling pool, the two skipped into the water for a bit of a paddle. After some splashing and squealing they spent the rest of the day wandering around Santa Cruz hopping from surf shop to surf shop, picking up custom fins for Will's yet unconfirmed Surf Board.
After a few falafels over-looking a volleyball game on the beach, more shopping was in order! Tom promptly acquired a 'Santa cruz screaming hand' t-shirt, a brand made for the city by infamous graphic designer, Jim phillips. A brief wander down the pier resulted in the multi faceted benefits of bumping into a Brazilian fisherman named Paolo, who not only supplied fascinating insights into the world of fishing, but also provided the super-hungry, super-poor team with dinner: Freshly caught fish (of some sort).
Meanwhile, Mike was sat in Starbucks, eyes bloodshot having spent the entire day peering into the endless glare of an undersized laptop monitor. Fortunately, the results of the effort promised some essential trip funding, so he packed up his laptop and set off to meet the other team members down by the beach.
The three were reunited under the intense flourescent light of the pier. Mike, having spent his day slogging away was super excited by the prospect of a frosty beer and meal in the warm confines of the pier’s restaurant, but after being told to close his eyes and stick his hand in a black plastic bag, he was painfully aware the night was not heading in the direction he had hoped.
The three were reunited under the intense flourescent light of the pier. Mike, having spent his day slogging away was super excited by the prospect of a frosty beer and meal in the warm confines of the pier’s restaurant, but after being told to close his eyes and stick his hand in a black plastic bag, he was painfully aware the night was not heading in the direction he had hoped.
Having gagged at finding his hand clutching a cold, slimy, rigor-mortis suffering fish corpse, Mike begrudgingly agreed to set about finding an appropriate space to gut and prepare the night’s dinner. The team set off down to the end of the pier to the fish preparation area, and with a lot of guesswork, began dissecting the fish. After a lot of confusion, random cutting, comments of disgust, and inevitably using the fish heads as puppets, the mission was complete! We got back in Spot with what we hoped would be the edible bits of the dissection, the fishy smell of success in the air.
We shifted to a campsite near Capitola south of Santa Cruz, foiled up the fish and threw them on the camp fire. Having done everything possible to guarantee fully cooked meat, we rigorously removed every bone we could find and tucked into a surprisingly satisfying dish. As the fire-lit dinner came to an end, a rattle from Spot alerted the lads to potential theft. As the flashlight came to life and was aimed at the van, a family of sneaky Raccoons (and a cat, seriously) were in a production-line setup, seemingly moving our precious alcoholic nectar into the darkness. Clearly unaware of our Raccoon killing track record, they continued, unphased. Without hesitation, Will stuck his hand into the fire, grabbed a flaming piece of wood and launched it at the thieves, forcing them to dissolve into the darkness. We slept, uneasily.
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