Matt Lopez pulling into perfection on a well-groomed, mid-beach bar at Ocean Beach. Photo: Seth Migdail
No matter where I am in the world, I always pine for a surf back home. Some places — Hawaii, Mexico — make me forget longer than others — SoCal, New England — but sooner or later, that hankering in my bones can only be satisfied by a trip to San Francisco.
You might think that this feeling only belongs to people from locales with world-class surf. I’ve found this to be untrue. Whether they’re from New Jersey, England, or Lake Michigan, folks agree: that first surf back home feels different. It satisfies a deep, achy nostalgia with the familiar pangs of an ocean well studied. And for those who were born without surf, discovering it at their second home… well… home is where you make it.
The other day, two years to the date, I finally re-entered the cold, deep waters off the western front of San Francisco – California’s premier Ocean Beach. Four-six-foot corduroy lines marched in from the northwest, neatly grooming themselves — first waving their feathery tips on the outside sandbars — before curling themselves over their guts on the inside bars. A brisk offshore wind combed them back, and offered a respite from the sun’s beating heat wave. It was the perfect reintroduction: organized, warm for the Bay Area, and some sizable swell.
Yet, I stood off the dunes of Santiago Street with trepidation. Would my shoulders, weaker and less conditioned from a season without surf, carry me past the lines of whitewater? And would my legs, now accustomed to fun-sized surf, remember how to navigate a jacked up drop? A warm welcome was not in store. Despite a pair of booties and a 4/3 wetsuit with a hood, the cold Pacific Ocean shocked my body, numbing any exposed skin. The first duck dive gave me a headache of the ice cream variety. But the current did its job and carried me out.
A set approached and I dug deep and paddled. Go, go, go. The face curled, and my legs clicked into place. Just like dropping in at the skatepark, only at an angle to the face. I trusted the rail, and flew down the line, popping out the back of the wave. Like I never left. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, so the ocean did it for me.
The next wave jacked a little extra on the drop. I stalled at the peak, got low, and grabbed the rail while cutting into the face. There was no tube to greet me, only a crumbling lip to buck me off and into the maw. I tumbled, end over end like clothes in the drier, and lightly kissed the sandy bottom with my side. I fell on an exhale, and though the wipeout was only seconds into the episode, my lungs craved air. They were out of shape, unexercised in the art of the hold down. I surfaced, lungs hot, and felt for the pull of the leash.
No dice.
The old, rotted velcro failed (worn-out gear, meaning I failed) and the board bobbed its way to shore. A lonely swim in… this was the Ocean Beach I remember. I emerged from the foamy shoreline, indistinguishable from a black seal, with a nasal cavity full of briney salt water. Weak shoulders now tired, ego reset — that was enough for the day. Halfway back up the dune, a familiar voice greeted me. “Hey bud, welcome home.” I’d have time for a parking lot beer to reset my shoulders, then me and my friend would be out there. Not quite Alabama, but home sweet home nonetheless.
