The Circle at the Center of the Universe

Surf Spots and Sand Circles

By da hulk

Coming and Going

It was getting late on a Thursday afternoon, and the Hawk was ready to divert his energy from two office projects he had been working over, and focus on something more personal. His day had begun, as it always did, with an early morning drive by the beach near his home. This is the same beach where he started surfing 35 year ago. The same beach he had called his home break ever since. Hawk found it energizes him to take in the uncrowded ocean view and check the surf conditions for the day. It is like opening a present from an old friend every morning, never quite knowing for sure what the new day will bring. This ritual also sets up a curious tension... work... surf... work... surf. Sometimes the tension is positively painful, and he almost envies others who don't share this conflict. Still, it kicks the adrenaline in, and it keeps life full of wonder and promise. If conditions are right, he might squeeze in a brief morning surf session before racing to the office.

The drive this morning had been classic summertime. A misty haze hung in the air over the beach, and the sky was already clearing above the bluff that separated it from the rest of the world. The waves were two to three feet in the faces, with random glassy peaks popping up, peeling left or right. There were no surfers in the water, unless you counted the solitary Pelican cruising the wind rushing up the face of breaking waves. Hawk had grumbled, "When this was our beach, some of us would already be in the water." It seemed a shame to him that the intimate knowledge he and the crew shared about this place was being lost. It wasn't a really consistent surfing beach, and when the crew began to move on, it was never the same. The spot even stopped forming decent sandbars for a few years, almost as if it mourned our passing...

Hawk chose not to let it go unridden this morning. He parked, pulled on his spring suit, grabbed his Takayama Noserider, stretched, and paddled out for a few waves. At beaches like this one the peaks rarely appear in the same place consistently, but there are always a few areas that focus the swell. Hawk had instinctively lined up at one of these familiar sites and noted his position against a couple of landmarks on the shore.

An elderly couple getting their early morning constitutional paused to watch him. He could guess their conversation. Thirty years ago, they would have been wishing they were young, healthy and carefree again. Today they are asking themselves why someone only a few years their junior would be so foolish. "Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids."

Hoping for a little extra speed Hawk caught his first wave at an angle, took a couple of quick steps forward as he stood up to trim, and squatted so the wave was at eye level. His fingers stroked the water rising beside him as he tilted his head into the curl and let the breaking wave pour onto his head and shoulders. When he came out of the first section he stood up, stepped back and popped a little stall-cutback that lined his board up for the next section. As the section steepened he cross-stepped to the nose, hung five toes over, and watched the blue-green water wash over his right foot. When Hawk felt the board gaining speed and drop down the wave out of trim, he back-pedaled and snapped a bottom turn up into the closing section, letting the wave carry him back around and down the whitewater onto the sand. "Pretty fun ride...I love this place." He'd thought.

Hawk turned to see if the old couple had seen the ride, but they were already walking farther down the beach, pointing at a flock of seagulls huddled together, warming themselves in the dry sand.

A few rides later Hawk caught a shoulder high left in the peak, threw a little backside bottom turn back up the face, stepped up into a trim position, shifted his stance almost parallel, arched his back slightly as his board accelerated, and watched in fascination as the shoulder of the wave hollowed out and raced him down the line, getting smaller and smaller, and finally delivering him onto the dry sand. "Like a gift!" He thought.

As Hawk walked back toward his car, he noticed a couple of youngsters with second-hand shortboards watching him approach. The toe-headed girl with the red board gave him the "hard look" as he passed. The look that declares, "This is our beach. Who do you think you are?" Hawk could only smile, as he unlocked his car. He knew the look well. He'd used it himself a thousand times. He thought about introducing himself, but decided against it. "Let them sink their own roots." When he drove out of the parking lot, the grommets were already entering the water.

A Surf Spot

Recovering from his musing, Hawk faced his computer, loaded up the word processing application, opened a folder cryptically labeled "MBS Project" and began writing.

"This entry is a tribute to a surf spot I have grown to love over the years. It is located in the crescent of sand beach that lines the Monterey Bay between two cliff-rimmed peninsulas. To the right extend the cliffs of Capitola, Pleasure Point, and the West Side. To the left curve miles of beach that eventually reach around to Monterey. The area abounds with a wonderful assortment of seabirds. Fish, sea lions, and dolphins routinely cruise the waters there. From a natural beauty perspective it is a spectacular and spellbinding place, and the sunsets over Santa Cruz from there are some of the most beautiful in the world.

The waves at this break closer to shore, and rides are generally much shorter than at some other beachbreaks in the area. It gets steep and fast, but rarely gets hollow, and it usually closes out when waves get much overhead. In the summer it is barely rideable. In late fall and early winter it can build some decent sandbars, and there are usually a few months in mid-winter and early spring when there are some pretty good waves. I guess what makes this spot really special is the fun factor. No long paddles, no really big waves, no crowds, no cruel wipeouts, soft fluffy sand, and just plain fun surf. If you want bigger sandbars you can go down the beach. If it gets windy or big you can go into Santa Cruz. When other surfers think about leaving their home break they rarely think of checking out this spot, it's almost always bigger, or hollower, or glassier, or...something, somewhere else.

To me it's home. I learned to surf there. I made my best friends on its waves. I courted my wife on its moonlit beaches. I taught my kids to love and respect the ocean in its waters. I go there to celebrate personal victories, and grieve personal losses. I find comfort in my familiarity with its moods, and the intimate part it has played in my life.

I suppose in some abstract astronomical sense, everyplace is the center of an infinite universe. On a more human, experiential level, I believe we sometimes arrive at a vortex of energy and creativity that profoundly changes those who are prepared to experience it. I believe this, because I have had the good fortune of stumbling upon this place occasionally. There are special moments like falling in love and the birth of our children that suddenly snap things into focus. Like getting a stand-up ride for the first time, making a late drop on a double overhead wave, or getting a really deep barrel and coming out. There have also been longer periods when I was part of a community that was extraordinary...challenging, creative, satisfying...growing up as a youngster in Alaska, my last year of graduate school, living in a canyon artist-philosopher colony, raising the kids (the early years)...and my home beach..."

The vortex may change from place to place...time to time...and person to person...and you can't stay forever, but after you've been, you know...and you remember. It becomes a part of you, one of the best parts.

The Sixties

In the summer of 1966, I was 17, and such a vortex focused on my home beach. For the next three years it was magic. Our particular spot on the beach used to be called "the brown bathrooms" but when the bathroom building was torn down, the platform it had been built on remained as a part of the beach parking lot. From then on it became known as "the platform." Everyone who was there, knows the platform.

During those years this spot belonged exclusively to those of us who lived in the area. The few non-local surfers who dropped by regularly, kept the winter waves our secret. Together we experimented with our surfing, pushed our performance limits, and had fun without fear. Non-locals dropped by in the summer because...

The summer of 1966 this spot pulsed...yeah, it...throbbed, with hot raw energy. The Sun radiated an extra portion of light and heat, and the sand and the sea reflected it back. The air was filled with rarefied cocoa butter, suntan oil, and saltwater perfumes. The steady hiss of whitewater and the rhythm of ocean waves lunging shoreward accompanied Seagull laughter, and music from tourist radios filled the empty spaces.

It was where the world of water met the world of land and sky. It was where human society ended, and natural laws were invoked. It was where workday people gave themselves permission to play. It was where people's fantasies could suddenly become life and death dramas. It was where the old symbols of wealth and status were cast aside and youth was celebrated. It was where authorities in the ordinary world, paid tribute to a band of boys who ruled the beach.

Most people passed through never realizing what they had stumbled upon. That is why those of us who understood...the locals...treated them with such contempt. They were the "tourists," the "valleys," and the "kooks"; and we were the warrior-priests rooted in the center of the vortex. To us this spot was a sacred place that was to be celebrated and served. But "being there" had its price. The vortex had to be celebrated every waking hour, and it dominated our dreams at night. It had to be defended from those who would desecrate and dishonor it. It demanded absolute loyalty and devotion. If one allowed anything else to become more important, they were driven from its grace.

The ritual we followed was clearly prescribed. Every day at dawn we began to arrive at the platform with our trunks and our board. Some of us walked, some rode bicycles, some drove cars. We ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, but age was immaterial. Surfing was everything. Our tan bodies, shaggy hair, and muscled frames bore witness to our devotion of the place. As each of us arrived we stood on the platform gazing at the beach below and the ocean beyond, soaking up the freshness of the day, exploring the surfing conditions with all of our senses, reconnoitering the tourists as they scattered about the beach, and checking the surfers already in the water. Each in our way, also looked beyond the natural beauty of the place, and probed where others couldn't see, a universe consisting of energy, vibes, stoke. Having scoped out the scene, we would descend to the beach and deposit our surfboard with others that were already carefully stacked like a giant pile of "pick-up-sticks." Only then did we approach "the circle."

The Sand Circle

Each day we gathered, and "the circle" was the hub that focused the energy we drew from. It always started the same way. Two or three of the crew would find the proper place, and lie on the warm dry sand facing each other with an open view of the platform, the beach, and the waves beyond. As more arrived and joined the group, "the sand circle" was formed.

Not every surfer who arrived joined the circle. They were not local, or they had yet to prove their worthiness. Others joined by virtue of being friends or family related to those at the center of the circle. At the very center of the circle were the core, the elite who surfed together, hung together, their membership mutually acknowledged. To become a part of the core required a dedication and commitment only a few of us seemed able to summon."

Hawk conjured up memories of the familiar faces sprawled in the sand, and continued to write.

"After all these years their images, their character, are still imprinted vividly in my memory: Zeke-the clown prince, Bosco-the surfing savant, Slick-the cool stylist, Mole-the repository of all surf-knowledge, Scruff-the busy grommet, Smiley-the friendly sport, Mountain-the outrageous, and even young Hawk-the conscience of the group. There were others. We were a young and unlikely crew who together somehow formed a symbiotic whole that engaged us and pushed each of us beyond our individual limitations. Each of us had our own personal story, our own style, our own talents, but together we complemented and sheltered each other, and were stronger. We were good surfers for the times. If you couldn't surf well you could never reach the inner circle, and if you ripped, all other faults were forgiven.

Each day was the same, yet each day was different. We were constantly moving between the surf and the circle. When someone got too hot in the sand, they would surf a while, cooling off in the ocean, demonstrating their mastery of the waves for an admiring crowd of tourists, and the tougher critics still gathered in the circle. The circle was always watching... watching... watching.....demanding that you perform, pushing your limits, expecting you to make them remember. No ride, no subtle move, no mistake was ever missed.

We all rode boards close to 10 feet long, leashes hadn't been introduced yet, and we only surfed in trunks. We didn't need wetsuits in summer. The sun was bright, we all knee paddled, which meant we didn't stay wet for long, and we could warm up instantly in the sand when we got chilled. Besides, it was Summertime, and we were stylin'...

Eventually we would return to a place in the circle and join in the group's deliberations. The faces in the circle were constantly changing as individuals entered the water or left the beach, but the circle remained. Each day we gathered our energy from our beach and the circle. Each day we were tested, and each day we grew stronger.

Deliberations

Deliberations in the circle never stopped. Conversation bounced crazily around the circle, each of us contributing to the discussion, adding our own twists. Topics and attitudes shifted instantly and everyone responded in unison, like a school of fish darting in the current, or a flock of birds above an open field. Even though it was rare for more than one of us to speak at once, there were always several threads of conversation running simultaneously and comments around the circle might relate to any of these. It was up to each person in the circle to associate quickly and keep up. There was no formal leader, no moderator, no arbitrator. Organization consisted of informal consensus, dominated by the inner circle.

Topics ranged radically...the surf conditions today, the party last night, the picnic basket on the tourist blanket nearby, the new tourist girls, the epic swell last month, the BA Mountain just pulled in the water, or Hawks last face-plant.

On it went... The surf movie coming up at the Civic, school, family, other surf groups in town. Sometimes it shifted to more esoteric topics like, "what will we be like at 50", the latest Surfer Magazine, "who surfs like what pro", "what if we made a surf movie", the pros and cons of various surfboard designs, or our natural environment...Sharks and sea lions, seagulls and jellyfish, anchovies and bird frenzies. Plans were bounced around like Pinballs.. "Lets go dive off the Cement Ship", "lets drain the lagoon", "lets go to the Point this afternoon", "lets go to Moss tomorrow morning", "lets go night surfing tonight", "lets raid the La Selva crew"...Always irreverent...always pushing limits.

Of course there were the surf stories. Trips, spots, rides, moves, surfers, in never-ending combinations. Always repeated, never quite the same, always exaggerated, but never lied. Bosco hanging ten across glassy green eight foot closeouts last September (Mole says "six foot," Scruff says "10"). Rivermouth last spring. Zeke out by himself at double overhead 26th Avenue in December (the rest of us watched). Hanging with Danny Anderson at "Place." The original genius of John Scott (an occasional beach guest) and his latest anti-contest vigil. Scruff being beaten in the Pro-Am Junior finals by Rolf Arness ("He was robbed"). Slick charming the ranger out of yet another citation ("That's D-O-R-A officer"). Rick Kalinowski at First Peak. The mole flinching at Sewer Peak. The vanload of surfers from Hayward that dropped in occasionally. Gene Hall at the Lane. The secret spots...yeah, the secret spots.

Then there were the "cut fights." Word fights in which insults and taunts were turned on individuals and wielded like scalpels. Each of us took our turn as assailants and as victims. We were cruel, we were merciless, and one could respond in only one of three ways; laugh it off and lie low, respond in kind outdoing the assailants, or leave the circle. Losing one's temper was a sign of weakness, and violence was forbidden. More than one sensitive or hot-tempered victim left the circle for good, shamed and shunned forever. These battles were an endless source of entertainment and served to separate the inner circle from the rest.

There were also the debates. Members would take positions on a variety of issues, arguing them to extremes while other sophists in the circle would take up opposing positions for no reason except to challenge. The debate was the thing. The extreme positions were the thing. The debate inevitably ending in rounds of laughter as all recognized the absurdity of taking any position too seriously. There was the time Mole and I debated the ferocity of our family pets, a Labrador Retriever Pup and a Muscovy Duck. Speculating on the result should these creatures ever meet in mortal combat. Neither of us conceded the obvious. I didn't lose, but of course I didn't win either. You had to be quick-witted just to hang.

Center Stage

Throughout the deliberations, was the constant surfing. We understood this break better than anyone. Better than anyone ever had...maybe better than anyone ever will. No subtlety was lost on us. Each individual's style was catalogued. Each ride a performance intended to please both ourselves and the critics in the circle.

All eyes in the circle turned to the water as Zeke caught a likely peak, faded left to build speed and then snapped the board right as he stood up; in one flowing motion he stepped to the tip and hung his left foot to the arch, over the nose. He hung on the tip in his half crouch noserider pose (Eyes and hands shouting, See the five?), floating as if he was walking on water. Just as quickly, he stepped back, threw his hands skyward, and popped the nose of his board up just as the backwash met him, sending him and his board airborne for a split-second. As Zeke landed, he danced back to the nose of his board and tucked into the wave as it closed out on the dry sand. The circle muttered its approval. When Zeke came in, fishing for compliments as usual, Mountain began teasing him about the "arm action" when he caught air. Zeke countered by suddenly stiffening, staring intently at Mountain and in his best fake Liverpool accent ask, "Oie beg youah pahdon?" When Mountain responded with more derogatory comments about the ride, Zeke began whooping and throwing his arms upward as he raced around the circle, mimicking his own ride, drawing concerned looks from neighboring tourists, and concluding by tackling Mountain. Bosco and Scruff dogpiled them, and the rest of the circle scattered howling with laughter. Tourists began moving their blankets."

Hawk sighed, a silly grin still lingering on his face as he stretched, and stared out his office window at the sun filtering through the Redwoods. He squinted at his computer screen and then at the keyboard beneath his waiting fingers.

Recovering, Hawk mentally mapped out the circles he had seen in his travels, and continued.

"Everywhere surfers have access to surf, these circles form. The Lane, Malibu, Windansea, Hermosa, Lahaina, Pleasure Point, The Hook, Hollywood-by-the Sea, Capitola, Rivermouth (all of them), Manresa, Moss Landing, Oceanside, Big Sur, the list goes on and on. They are timeless. They were the "hui" in ancient Hawaii, they reappeared when modern surfing first emerged, and they continue today.

I remember the day a couple of years ago when the crew gathered on the beach in front of Slicks beach house. I was sitting in the circle, and the stories, and the cuts began to fly. It was then I realized that after over thirty years, the circle was still incredibly powerful. Zeke was still clowning, Mole was still telling stories, and Mountain was still extreme. We enjoyed a fellowship in ways that only those of us in the circle could understand. The dynamic in the circle was energizing, it generated stoke. It revitalized me for months.

For years this spot was our home. We hung there every day. We soaked rays there when it got warm. We hooked up in the evenings to party. We built fires there when it got cold, and we sat in our cars, talking, and listening to music, as raging winter storms built the next set of sandbars. We spent more time together at the beach than we did at school, or with our families. I guess a spot is more than the Bay, or the beach, or the surf, or the times, or the crew, it's a state of mind. The place I love exists because all of these things converged, and I was tuned into it."

Hawk reflected on the fate of some of the circles at surf spots he had known. Places like the Lane, Pleasure Point, and Malibu are so public, so well known, that they have been overrun. There is no longer a clearly discernible hierarchy. The kooks don't understand the old order, or respect the sacred nature of such places. The warrior-priests now retreat in despair, or cling to the shreds of what was once a noble and honored space. In other less public places, surfers have resorted to intimidation, violence and vandalism to stem the invading tide of beginning and intermediate surfers hungry for uncrowded venues. Sadly these individuals may temporarily succeed in preventing the crowds from desecrating their place, but the means by which they have succeeded has left them angry, bitter and frustrated, ultimately sowing the seeds of their own fall from grace.

What's more, each new generation of surfers wants to claim a spot for themselves, inevitably leading them to compete for control with those who came before. When there are few crowds, the transition is often done peaceably and with dignity. With the crowds, wresting control of a spot becomes extremely difficult, if not impossible. Speaking as an "old one" I have become resigned to the fact that the "young ones" need to create their own circle. Still, it is good to be acknowledged, and to pass the richness of our experiences on to those who have re-discovered the power of surf spots and sand circles.

Many of the beachbreaks have fared better. The sandbars shift and reform, the waves are less predictable and the crowds grow tired of chasing them. New generations can set up down the beach, and still talk story in the lineup. Maybe I am lucky my spot isn't good enough or consistent enough to gain permanent public notoriety. On a day to day basis I can still enjoy it relatively undisturbed. I don't begrudge the occasional visitor, and when the old crew shows up, it still sparkles."

Hawk tried to focus on his writing again, but nothing came.

...Tapped out....

Another Sand Circle

Hawk's mind wandered...what was the surf like now...the tide...the wind...the crowd...

Knowing he wasn't quite ready to leave the office, he shook himself awake and stared back at the computer screen....Nothing!

He minimized his Word application and without really thinking about it clicked on the Web Navigator icon. The homepage filled the screen, waiting to take him someplace on the internet. The "Surfing" bookmark list appeared, "Surf Conditions" was highlighted and he was looking at an image of Cowells taken a few minutes before. He scrolled to the tide tables for Santa Cruz, and estimated how his work schedule fit with optimal tides. High tide...possible beachbreak action if the wind isn't too strong, low tide...action at the points. He jumped out to a weather buoy reading to determine wave direction, size, water temperature, wind direction and speed. Nothing really interesting right now, but the East Side looks promising after work. His screen flashed again and he was viewing a map of the Pacific that projected where swells were being generated, how big the waves might be, and when they might arrive in town. "Should be bigger by the weekend," he thought. "I'd better remember to clear my schedule for Saturday morning."

The cursor again leapt quickly, and "Surfer Newsgroup" was highlighted. It was a familiar path he had traveled many times. He clicked the mouse button. The new entries since he had last logged in appeared on the screen.

Hmmm...The Sandman's cutting down a kook who tried to slip in too much attitude. Foondoggy's written another of his classics, Maddux is teasing us with another uncrowded-classic-overhead-offshore-Indicator to the Freeway-Rincon surf report, and Tim's promoting the Wedge again. The usual topics...wave height, sharks, crowds, surf spots, professionalism, localism, surf stories, cut fights, surfboard designs. Kooks, grommets, wannabes, pros... Whoa! Are those pictures of Italy for real?...

A sense of excitement, and community sweep over the Hawk, and suddenly he feels as if he has come home... he has found another sand circle...and the stoke is back.

Hawk checks his Meeting Maker, shuts down the computer, locks the door to the office, and heads toward the Wavemobile, and his surf gear, waiting in the parking lot.

"You know, it's turning offshore, "the platform" might be really fun this evening...."

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Last modified on 10/2/01.