North Jetty was a tough place to learn how to surf. The convented first peak was controlled by a crotchety group of aging hippies, Vietnam vets and red necks that weren't really interested in passing the torch to the next generation. I surfed there for twenty five years and I was never excepted by the Jetty Rats.
For this reason, my best friend Rob and I took to surfing in conditions no one else would consider. If it was one foot or less, we would remove our fins and do 360's in the shore break. If the tide was wrong and the sun was directly over head, we were on it. Our favorite thing of all was big, cold, blown out surf. We loved walking over sand with no prints, and paddling for thirty minutes to get big doubled up, closing out, wind chop. At some point during every session a weird series of events would occur and we would get a wave that was worth it.
Back in the empty parking lot we would do the towel dance out of our wetsuits. Back in the safety of my VW bus, and wearing jeans and Billibong sweat shirts, we would bask in the exhaust laden heat and head to the 7-11. Life was sweet.
It was the memory of this that got me into the car and headed to Munson on Saturday. It was drizzling and cold and the parking lot was empty. I got lost on the twilight loop and it took a while to find a familiar site. One hour and a half later, I was back in the car, and I had a strange craving for Beebo doughnuts and Mountain Dew.
