Frosty Mornings

In a deep sleep, I'm suddenly startled. Groggily, I blindly search for my iPhone on the nightstand to turn off the alarm. Looking out the window, the surrounding redwood trees are just silhouettes masking the rising sun. The apple trees having lost their leaves a while ago stand naked in the orchard across the way.

Rolling out of bed, I shuffle into my pants and throw on my down jacket to shake off the goosebumps. Cold but warming up, I make my way out the front door only to slip on the frosty deck. Nearly wiping out, I regain my balance and and carefully tip toe to my truck.

Frosty sunrise

Surf gear loaded, I excitedly hop in my truck to get the heater going only to realize that every window is frozen. Talking to myself, I unload the contents of my glovebox.

"Where's my ice scraper?"

Finding the little red plastic putty knife at the bottom of the glovebox, I begin scraping my truck windows. With each scrape my hands become more numb and begin to turn into crippled claws. Satisfied with the frost removal, I hop back in the truck, put it in gear, and I'm out the driveway.

A short time later down the road, I'm at the overlook for one of the local surf spots in Mendocino. Looking down from the cliff, old redwood sinker logs sit on the beach as a reminder of the logging era that's been long gone. Just beyond that, there are a few peeling waves coming through to the beach and nobody is out.

Framed

Indecisively I sit at the vista point for a few more minutes debating to brave the cold or not. Hearing a large diesel truck pull into the parking lot, I turn around to see it's my friend. Giving him a thumbs up through the windshield, he throws me a shaka back. Without a verbal cue, we head down to the beach knowing that we have a buddy to share a few waves with.

 Open air living

 Downtown Mendocino

 Standing among giants

Stars

Chasing Swell Down The California Coast

It’s currently 10PM on a Sunday as we drive along Highway One. Heading inland to reach the main freeway, we are shrouded by heavy fog as we twist and turn through the redwood forest. Navigating the road with expertise, my friend at the wheel is focused on making good time to Berkeley.

“Dude, we are going to score.”

Tall, with short, curly, dirty blonde hair, my high school friend Alex is well built from years of working in Alaska on fishing vessels. Contacting me the night before, he asked if I wanted to head South to chase a swell to Santa Barbara. Looking at the swell forecast for Northern California, the charts were dark red indicating that abnormally large waves were on the way. Looking at the individual buoys along the coast, some were reading thirty-seven feet at seventeen seconds. However, down the coast the waves were forecasted to be perfect and well groomed due to protection from the Channel Islands. How could I say no?

Reaching Alex’s sister’s house in Berkeley at midnight, we shuffle up the steps and unlock the front door. Walking into the upstairs unit, the burnt red cedar floors aged with footsteps creek as we walk on them. Making our way into the living room, the décor is fit for an Urban Outfitters catalog. The antique crème yellow gas stove boils water in the corner while a Van Morrison LP spins on a record player in the background. Too tired to explore my new surroundings I begin to doze listening to Van Morrison and the housemates talk about their PhDs in art history. It’s a hipster’s paradise.

With the IPhone alarm ringing in my ear at 4:30AM, I try to ignore it as long as possible. Shutting it off, I whisper over to Alex, “we are going to regret not getting up right now. “ Climbing out of our sleeping bags, we pack them up and shuffle down the cedar staircase in darkness. Not seeing the fixie at the front of the door, I trip over it on the way out.

Reaching Rincon in the early afternoon, we pull into the massive parking lot. Every space is taken in the parking lot and all of the street parking is nonexistent. After some shuffling we find a spot in the overflow parking lot.

Looking at Alex I say, “Seems like we aren’t the only ones looking forward to the swell arriving today. I think all of Santa Barbara and Ventura called in sick.”

“Just keep your head down and look mean when you're paddling for waves.”

“I think we should get a honorary award for driving almost the entire coast of California to surf this swell.”

Suiting up, we grab our boards and head to the beach in search of a few waves with far too many people. Mentally and physically preparing, Alex and I paddle out into the subtropical water with two hundred other people looking for the same thing. It’s what we do for a few perfect waves.

Check out the last trip to Santa Barbara California

Choking Down MREs (Meals Ready to Eat)

Stepping out of the Tacoma in Northern California, my two friends Austin and Justin have just arrived from San Diego. Looking at Austin's Tacoma, I give him a quizzical look because it's lathered in dirt and dust.

With a huge grin on his face, Austin says, "yeah... we found ourselves on a dirt road for a little while."

Laughing, I bring Austin and Justin into my grandma's house to talk about our upcoming trip. We are backpacking into the Kings Range and my grandma's house is the meeting place before driving to the trailhead.

Stepping into the house, the smell of food wafts around the house. The oak kitchen table and floral couches give a homey feeling. It's what you would imagine a grandma's house would look and smell like.

"So this is basecamp grandma?"

"Dude your grandma is classic! She has lunch prepared for us and baked goods?"

Finishing lunch we're back on the subject of backpacking. Pulling everything we need out of our backpacks, the floor now looks like something detonated across it. Camp stoves, fuel bottles, water filters, and clothes are scattered everywhere.

Bringing up the topic of what we want to bring for food, Austin states that Justin brought a box of MREs.

"What's a MRE?"

Austin looking at me ecstatically says, "you don't know what a MRE is? It stands for Meal Ready to Eat! It's what the military eats when they are deployed away from their basecamp."

Taking one from Justin, I look it over. Vacuum sealed, the tough brown plastic casing that covers it looks bomb proof. Bold letters streaked across it state what kind of meal is in it. Pasta and vegetables. Grilled chicken. Beef teriyaki. Bean burrito.

The MRE

Stuffing our bear cans.

Commenting to them, I say, "these look pretty legit. I've never bought backpacking meals before and if the military uses them, they can't be bad. Lets open them up to reduce weight and we can stuff them in our bear cans."

Taking a break from sorting our backpacks, we start tearing open the MREs like a little kid opening Christmas presents. Each one has different snacks and desserts inside.

"I got M&Ms!"

"No way! Jalapeño cheese!"

"Snickers Munch Bar? I've never even heard of that but it sounds awesome!"

Stuffing our bear cans full we load our backpacks and get on the road.

Hiking into the night.

The next day after we hiked in, we prepare an MRE for lunch. Austin opening the cheese comments,  "this doesn't look or smell right." Grabbing it from him, I smell it, take a bite and gag, "that's the most foul thing I've ever eaten!"

Austin grabbing the Snickers Munch bar takes a bite and spits it out. Laughing and spitting chunks of candy bar out, he says, "this is horrible." Looking at the wrapper he reads out, "The Snicker's and Mars corporation! That doesn't even exist anymore. Come to think of it, I haven't even seen a Munch bar before!"

Pulling it out of the wrapper he takes a long look at the candy bar and says, "It's all yellow and old looking, it doesn't even look edible."

Justin pulling out an actual meal begins to open it. Putting his finger in the container he tries it. There's no expression across his face. "It's not terrible. It tastes like plastic and salt but this one is edible...", he says.

Grabbing the packaging and looking at it more closely. I begin to look for signs of how old the stuff is. The packaging looks old but there aren't any dates. By no means is it fresh. I begin thinking it's from the Cold War or Vietnam.

Setting the packaging back down, I take a look to see what we have in our bear cans. My heart sinks a little. It's stuffed with MREs and we are backpacking for another four days. Sitting down, I try my best to eat the MRE and enjoy it because we don't have anything else for lunch and dinner.

Mornings.

Evenings.

September Sessions

The fog crept in like a cat eager to pounce on it's prey. The last of the summer heat fought to keep the fog at bay but was slowly losing as dusk approached. Walking down the headlands trail, I spy a perfect wave breaking at the river mouth. This confirmed what I had thought I'd seen while driving along Highway 1. A combination of South swell and the right amount of sand in the bay has created the waves I've been waiting for.

Sprinting back to my truck, I eagerly start pulling on my wetsuit. Looking around I notice the amount of transients hanging out in the parking lot. Leaning on their cars, they casually talk with one another while passing around a joint. I remind myself that this is normal in NorCal during the late Summer early Fall. Grabbing my board I make my way down to the beach.

Walking across the sand, I continually see little lefts breaking across the beach. One perfect wave after another and nobody's out. The water an ominous dark color changed from the previous arctic blue hinting that Fall is just around the bend.

Sliding into a few waves I spy another surfer heading down the beach. With a sense of urgency, I paddle harder back into the lineup to enjoy a few more minutes to myself. In the distance I hear a familiar voice call out, "Wyatt!"

Turning my head I see that it's a friend that I grew up surfing with named Holly.

"Hey! How have you been?"

"I've been great! I was about to drive South but it looked like a lot of fun here."

"Yeah, there's no use in driving when there are waves closer by..."

Seeing a wave in the distance, Holly spins her board around and paddles into a wave. I follow suit and slide into another glassy wave behind hers. Kicking out next to Holly, I can't help but laugh. Amidst my laughter, I'm only able to produce a few words.

"Wow, this is amazing!!"

Holly reciprocates with a smile that seems to say, "I know."

Welcome Back To NorCal

Worn down after years of footprints, years of salt dripping off of wetsuits, the familiar trail hadn't changed since I could remember. While it's appearance hadn't changed, it felt like rediscovering an old friend again. Walking down the trail surrounded by the fresh growth of Spring, I'm focused on the shimmering blue ocean in the distance.

Setting my wetsuit and board down on the headlands, I spot the buckets, clothes, and bags that are temporarily abandoned by their owners for waves. Taking a seat on the grass, I watch the waves sloppily roll in. Debating my options, I decide it's better to surf then not to. Wrapping my towel around myself, I strip down and begin trying to stretch my parched wetsuit over my legs. Losing my balance, I stumble and catch myself.

I tell myself words of encouragement, "It's only because you haven't worn a wetsuit for six months..."

Yanking the hood over my head, I suddenly feel stiff from the restrictiveness of the wetsuit. Grabbing my board, I make my way down to the water's edge. Putting one foot into the cold water, I immediately want to run away like a child who runs from the swash on the beach. Not wanting to forfeit, I throw my body onto my board trying to keep my appendages out of the water.

My hands sear and turn plum red as I make my way out of the channel into the lineup. Twenty feet away from me, a sea lion breaks the surface and gives me a shock. The slightly opaque water reveals the kelp and sand hidden underneath me. A set rolling in forces me to duckdive and endure the frigid water over my entire body. Reappearing from underneath the wave, I instantly have an ice cream headache.

"Welcome Back to NorCal," I tell myself.

I've been home for several days now and while I miss the people and places in Central America, it feels great to be home. After six months of living out of a backpack, the conveniences of having a home are thoroughly missed. Even though the adventure was more than worthwhile, the wayfaring lifestyle is difficult at times. Suddenly trivial things like transportation back home suddenly become difficult in a foreign country. So when I stepped into the San Jose airport in Costa Rica, it was saddening to see this adventure come to a close but also exciting to see what other ones unfold in the future.

Wasting time in San Jose Costa Rica

When you have six hours in the San Jose airport, this is what it looks like when you lay on your back...

Empty lineup

One last bus ride


Looking at my hands, they looked crippled. After an hour of being in the frigid water, my hands succumbed to the cold and began to turn into claws. Shivering, I catch one more wave to the beach and walk back up to the headlands. Pulling my wetsuit off my body, the chilly air feels warm after begin in the much colder ocean. Replacing the wetsuit with jeans and two sweaters, I sit back down to catch up with the familiar faces that I left behind six months earlier.





Here are some photos from the traveling in the islands of Bocas del Toro Panama. I will also continue adding photos over the course of the next week or so.

Filtering our water for the day

 The hidden coffee shop in the jungle

 Jungle shack

Upcycled

 The unmarked jungle trails on Bastimentos

 B-ball with a view