Jalama Beach (September 2008) Surf Fiction - “Ghosts up Jalama-way” Text by Jeff McElroy Driving my truck down old Jalama Road. Riding that black snake - twisting and turning under my headlights. Crazy L.A. poet, Jim Morrison, Lizard King, sings black leather dreams via speakers—Riders on the Storm. Surfboards and beers rattling back in camper shell. Banking turns. Moon pretending to hide behind knitwork of gnarled Oak branches, reaching fingers, webbed moss, fog tufting and parting at the windshield. Spirits. Fingers still smell like garlic & onions. Apron still tied around waist. Thought that fruity couple would never pay their bill. Kept ordering more wine. They’re probably making 2.3 children in their gazillion thread count bed right now back in old Santa Barby. But I’m up here, Jalama-way, that jutting tit of coast. Lightning - FLASH! Thunder - BaROOM! Ocean in view now. White-capped and angry under lightning snapshot. Oil platforms winking. Light and oil pollution combined. Road lowers down salt-bleached cliffs. Manzanita & chaparral sparse and leaning with northwest wind. Anchored. Campground empty (yippee!) except one bonfire north. Steer clear. Respect solitude. Rain on windshield spread thin by wind. Back truck into campsite sheltered by wind dancing bushes. Kill lights and engine, but not Riders on the Storm. Turn it up loud. Hop out. Cheeks numbed. Wind pierces clothes. Apron off. Levi wool-lined jacket on. Rain not heavy, more of a windblown mist. Open camper shell. Prop open against wind with bamboo stick. Beer. Open bottle with back of lighter. Twist newspaper tightly into kindling and throw into metal ring firepit. Stack smallest pieces of wood over newspaper and light. Wind is rough with baby flame, tugs it towards darkness, but baby come back stronger. Climbing, worshiping, consuming - Come on Baby Light my Fire! There she goes. She ain’t baby no more. She a woman now. Many pronged, she tangos with the wind. Stack surfboards under truck by flickering firelight. Wetsuit in cab. Dry. Roll out blankets in campershell for later. Beer numero dos. Dark frothy ale warms the bones. Pleasant burps. Cigar lit. Burns fast in wind. Swing feet on tailgate. Big ol’ smile crinkles cheeks and won’t go away. Morrison sings - When you’re strange/Faces come out of the rain. And up walks two dudes in beanies with beers. “‘Sup man?” “Saw you roll in.” “You guys surf today?” “Yeah. Tarantulas. It was sick.” “Big?” “Overhead. Building overnight.” “This wind ain’t good.” “Supposed to swing around offshore by morning.” “Nice.” Tribal silence. Watch flames. One of the dudes offers a pipe. “Wanna bowl?” “Sure, man.” Light nest of sticky buds. Inhale. Hold. Release. Pass it on. Knowing looks from all. Big snap from fire — Echoes, echoes, echoes. Large ember lifts in wind, floats skyward and - Fades, fades, fades. Lightning - FLASH! - faces of Chumash elders in white cliffs. Stoic. Staring. Wind speaking vowels. Thunder - BaROOM! - Jester coyote scampers towards Humqaq on skinny haunches. Morrison wails The End. The pipe is empty. Another log on fire. Beers handed out to new friends. Big belly chuckles. Laughter for the sake of laughter. No sarcasm. No punchline. Just pure laughter. Lies exchanged of waves surfed, fish caught - taxes evaded. Sleep descending. “Night, boys. See y’all in the water.” “Night.” Climb up into camper shell. Get under blankets. Toes warm, numb. Don’t even bother kicking off boots. Head on pillow. Watch fading fire make shadows, forms, on the walls of my encroaching cave. Wind rocks truck. Waves static. This is the End. My only friend, the End. Warm sage wind. Orange sky to east. Little hangover. Ain’t nothing a duck-dive in the icy Pacific can’t fix. Hop out of camper shell. Smoke rises from fire ring. Blows west. Off-shore. Granola bar, banana, swig of water. Head over sandy bluff. Behold pristine theater of empty peaks. Phalanx of emerald swell lines. Pitching lips, blowing smoke off the backs. Pushing double-overhead. Nobody out. Back at the truck. Pop in the Bob Marley. Lively up yourself! Stretch into wetsuit. Booties on. Fetch 6’3” round-tail from dirt under truck. Stash 6’1” and 5’11” squash in camper shell and lock. Hide keys behind wheel. Pry molten wax from rusted bumper. Squat with board over knees and rub wax over crusty bumps. Look around for friends from last night, but no cars in entire campsite. Strange. Notice a bunch of coyote paw-prints in the dirt around my truck. Can’t shake a weird feeling of being watched from all directions. Fuck it. I’ve got waves to catch. Jogging south with board underarm. Towards Tarantulas. Freight lines marching, peaking heaving, throwing, peeling, grinding—left and right. Dark lines. My jog becomes a sprint. Salt-bleached cliffs to left echo rumble of sea and—CR-ACK!—of barrels. Still in shadows of cliff. Cold. But warming quick in 4/3 wetsuit. Healthy smell of fish and kelp. Welcome to Central Cal. But I swear I’m being watched. Beach empty in both directions. Nobody on the cliffs. Weird. Tide low. Walk out on reef. One foot in front of the other. Reef slick with purple moss. Hold leash above water. Surge of whitewater. Board on water. Comb wax with fingernails. Waves monstrous now at sea level. No lulls. Makes me feel like I have to take a shit. Best not to look. One wave at a time. One day at a time. Push off. Duck-dive. Fucking cold. Frozen dome. Duck-dive. Flush of ice water down spine. Real fucking cold, dude. Shoulders weak and stiff with first paddles. Head down. Dig. Shoulders finding new strength. Duck-dive. Push board deep, arch back, rumble in ears, kick with booties, shoot out back. Duck-dive again. Again. Don’t look back. Outside now. Sit up on board. Chest heaving. Bobbing like a buoy. Seal pops up. Darth Vader eyes. Disappears. Look back at coast. Mild winter sunrise. Itallic shadows on gullied cliffs. Steinbeck hills. Green. Gold. Toy lighthouse far to south at tip of Point Conception. Satellite towers north at Vandenberg Airforce Base. Inhale warm wind of sage and manzanita. Face and hands numb, but torso warm. Calm but alert. Focused. Still nobody in sight. Nobody. No surfers walking this way. No Filipino fishermen with cigarettes and rubber boots. No old men searching for memories with metal detectors. No spastic dogs or staccato barks. Nothing. Alone. There’s a natural mystic blowing through the air. Thick wave on horizon. Turn and paddle. Match power with power. Up. Up. High above the sea. Then the cradle. The scoop. Jump to feet and lean forward. Wind holds me back. Lean forward more. Keep body low and tight. Then drop. Weightless. Reef almost dry. Trust it will deepen by the time I get there. Bottom turn. Drag hand. Stand up tall inside crystal chamber. Fade deeper. Point Conception framed by tube. Baby pumps. Barrel—SPIT! Wide open face. Speed to burn. Don’t fuck this up. Long powerful arc back to foamball and—SNAP! Knees bent. Back propped up by foam. And a whole new drop. A whole new face. Drop in and set line for barrel number two. Before curtains close, something on-shore catches my eye. I swear it looks like a group of people watching me. A gathering of shadows. What the hell? Concentration lost. Catch heel-side edge. Fall backward. Sucked up in wrap like a fucking burrito. Board—THUMP!—on my lip. Hard. Seeing stars. No time for breath. Darkness underwater. Ears ringing. Taste of blood. Zinc. Searching for light. - Text by Jeff McElroy -
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Jalama Beach (September 2008)


Surf Fiction - “Ghosts up Jalama-way” Text by Jeff McElroy

Driving my truck down old Jalama Road. Riding that black snake - twisting and turning under my headlights. Crazy L.A. poet, Jim Morrison, Lizard King, sings black leather dreams via speakers—Riders on the Storm. Surfboards and beers rattling back in camper shell. Banking turns. Moon pretending to hide behind knitwork of gnarled Oak branches, reaching fingers, webbed moss, fog tufting and parting at the windshield. Spirits. Fingers still smell like garlic & onions. Apron still tied around waist. Thought that fruity couple would never pay their bill. Kept ordering more wine. They’re probably making 2.3 children in their gazillion thread count bed right now back in old Santa Barby. But I’m up here, Jalama-way, that jutting tit of coast.

Lightning - FLASH! Thunder - BaROOM! Ocean in view now. White-capped and angry under lightning snapshot. Oil platforms winking. Light and oil pollution combined. Road lowers down salt-bleached cliffs. Manzanita & chaparral sparse and leaning with northwest wind. Anchored. Campground empty (yippee!) except one bonfire north. Steer clear. Respect solitude. Rain on windshield spread thin by wind. Back truck into campsite sheltered by wind dancing bushes. Kill lights and engine, but not Riders on the Storm. Turn it up loud.

Hop out. Cheeks numbed. Wind pierces clothes. Apron off. Levi wool-lined jacket on. Rain not heavy, more of a windblown mist. Open camper shell. Prop open against wind with bamboo stick. Beer. Open bottle with back of lighter. Twist newspaper tightly into kindling and throw into metal ring firepit. Stack smallest pieces of wood over newspaper and light. Wind is rough with baby flame, tugs it towards darkness, but baby come back stronger. Climbing, worshiping, consuming - Come on Baby Light my Fire! There she goes. She ain’t baby no more. She a woman now. Many pronged, she tangos with the wind.

Stack surfboards under truck by flickering firelight. Wetsuit in cab. Dry. Roll out blankets in campershell for later. Beer numero dos. Dark frothy ale warms the bones. Pleasant burps. Cigar lit. Burns fast in wind. Swing feet on tailgate. Big ol’ smile crinkles cheeks and won’t go away. Morrison sings - When you’re strange/Faces come out of the rain. And up walks two dudes in beanies with beers.

“‘Sup man?”

“Saw you roll in.”

“You guys surf today?”

“Yeah. Tarantulas. It was sick.”

“Big?”

“Overhead. Building overnight.”

“This wind ain’t good.”

“Supposed to swing around offshore by morning.”

“Nice.”

Tribal silence. Watch flames. One of the dudes offers a pipe. “Wanna bowl?”

“Sure, man.”

Light nest of sticky buds. Inhale. Hold. Release. Pass it on. Knowing looks from all. Big snap from fire — Echoes, echoes, echoes. Large ember lifts in wind, floats skyward and - Fades, fades, fades. Lightning - FLASH! - faces of Chumash elders in white cliffs. Stoic. Staring. Wind speaking vowels. Thunder - BaROOM! - Jester coyote scampers towards Humqaq on skinny haunches. Morrison wails The End. The pipe is empty. Another log on fire. Beers handed out to new friends. Big belly chuckles. Laughter for the sake of laughter. No sarcasm. No punchline. Just pure laughter. Lies exchanged of waves surfed, fish caught - taxes evaded. Sleep descending.

“Night, boys. See y’all in the water.”

“Night.”

Climb up into camper shell. Get under blankets. Toes warm, numb. Don’t even bother kicking off boots. Head on pillow. Watch fading fire make shadows, forms, on the walls of my encroaching cave. Wind rocks truck. Waves static. This is the End. My only friend, the End.

Warm sage wind. Orange sky to east. Little hangover. Ain’t nothing a duck-dive in the icy Pacific can’t fix. Hop out of camper shell. Smoke rises from fire ring. Blows west. Off-shore. Granola bar, banana, swig of water. Head over sandy bluff. Behold pristine theater of empty peaks. Phalanx of emerald swell lines. Pitching lips, blowing smoke off the backs. Pushing double-overhead. Nobody out.

Back at the truck. Pop in the Bob Marley. Lively up yourself! Stretch into wetsuit. Booties on. Fetch 6’3” round-tail from dirt under truck. Stash 6’1” and 5’11” squash in camper shell and lock. Hide keys behind wheel. Pry molten wax from rusted bumper. Squat with board over knees and rub wax over crusty bumps. Look around for friends from last night, but no cars in entire campsite. Strange. Notice a bunch of coyote paw-prints in the dirt around my truck. Can’t shake a weird feeling of being watched from all directions. Fuck it. I’ve got waves to catch.

Jogging south with board underarm. Towards Tarantulas. Freight lines marching, peaking heaving, throwing, peeling, grinding—left and right. Dark lines. My jog becomes a sprint. Salt-bleached cliffs to left echo rumble of sea and—CR-ACK!—of barrels. Still in shadows of cliff. Cold. But warming quick in 4/3 wetsuit. Healthy smell of fish and kelp. Welcome to Central Cal.

But I swear I’m being watched. Beach empty in both directions. Nobody on the cliffs. Weird.

Tide low. Walk out on reef. One foot in front of the other. Reef slick with purple moss. Hold leash above water. Surge of whitewater. Board on water. Comb wax with fingernails. Waves monstrous now at sea level. No lulls. Makes me feel like I have to take a shit. Best not to look. One wave at a time. One day at a time. Push off.

Duck-dive. Fucking cold. Frozen dome. Duck-dive. Flush of ice water down spine. Real fucking cold, dude. Shoulders weak and stiff with first paddles. Head down. Dig. Shoulders finding new strength. Duck-dive. Push board deep, arch back, rumble in ears, kick with booties, shoot out back. Duck-dive again. Again. Don’t look back.

Outside now. Sit up on board. Chest heaving. Bobbing like a buoy. Seal pops up. Darth Vader eyes. Disappears. Look back at coast. Mild winter sunrise. Itallic shadows on gullied cliffs. Steinbeck hills. Green. Gold. Toy lighthouse far to south at tip of Point Conception. Satellite towers north at Vandenberg Airforce Base. Inhale warm wind of sage and manzanita. Face and hands numb, but torso warm. Calm but alert. Focused.

Still nobody in sight. Nobody. No surfers walking this way. No Filipino fishermen with cigarettes and rubber boots. No old men searching for memories with metal detectors. No spastic dogs or staccato barks. Nothing. Alone. There’s a natural mystic blowing through the air.

Thick wave on horizon. Turn and paddle. Match power with power. Up. Up. High above the sea. Then the cradle. The scoop. Jump to feet and lean forward. Wind holds me back. Lean forward more. Keep body low and tight. Then drop. Weightless. Reef almost dry. Trust it will deepen by the time I get there. Bottom turn. Drag hand. Stand up tall inside crystal chamber. Fade deeper. Point Conception framed by tube. Baby pumps. Barrel—SPIT! Wide open face. Speed to burn. Don’t fuck this up. Long powerful arc back to foamball and—SNAP! Knees bent. Back propped up by foam. And a whole new drop. A whole new face.

Drop in and set line for barrel number two. Before curtains close, something on-shore catches my eye. I swear it looks like a group of people watching me. A gathering of shadows. What the hell? Concentration lost. Catch heel-side edge. Fall backward. Sucked up in wrap like a fucking burrito. Board—THUMP!—on my lip. Hard. Seeing stars. No time for breath. Darkness underwater. Ears ringing. Taste of blood. Zinc. Searching for light.

- Text by Jeff McElroy -