Giddy-up Boys

Big Sur-fing in Central California

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Mitch Crews flairing in the flash. Pic Shield

We wake early to check Skindog’s local reef, which naturally is flat, so head south in search of more. No-one is prepared for the drive ahead, particularly at 6am, but suddenly the clouds part, the roads leave the burbs, and we’re veering through the set of a James Bond car chase, and entering into Big Sur; the wild and wooly inspiration to all manner of alternative thinkers, the home to all manner of bohemians, and the pastoral land of many a farmer, but more on them later.

Yank tank enforcer. Pic Shield

“I’d be driving so fast through here, in a good car,” laughs Owen, as we cling to precipice edge after cliff top drop off. The roads are terrifying and the views spectacular. Mitch “I’m scared shitless of heights” Crews loses his lunch in a hurry, everyone else grabs for their cameras and in the midst of the action we completely forget about hunting surf and overshoot the beach we’re aiming for. U-turns are near on impossible so we keep trucking. Hell, we can see waves at the base of the cliffs, and below the various suspension bridges we cross, so we figure we’ll find something.

Noah Lane on the wrong side of the law. Pic Shield

“Since when can you own the beach anyway?” Pic Shield

Which we do, at Rancho El Sur, a large property housing a nor-west facing beach that seems to be making the most of the available swell. After a day of minimal surf, the boys are keen to try anything, and even though there’s a huge barbed wire and keep out signs everywhere, Owen, Noah and Mitch suit up to attack. As soon as Noah jumps the fence a large pickup truck pulls over, loaded with hay bales and bearing two burly ranch hands in the cab, all cowboy hats and moustaches and deep drawls. “Whaddyou boys think you’re playing at?” they holler. “We just wanna surf,” says Mitch. “Well you can’t, don’t you see the signs?” Noah is standing sheepishly on the wrong side of the fence, surrounded by cows, right next to a No Trespassing sign. It’s a slightly worrying situation when they threaten to call the ranger, but they’re good natured about it all, and their massive caricatures of hats only add to the comedy of the situation. Back in the car Noah is ropeable, “Since when can you own the beach anyway?” he fumes, but his anger stems mainly from having to turn away from the best waves we’ve seen in a couple of days.

Stu Kennedy wrapping around. Pic Shield

Thankfully we surf soon after that. At one beach a guy asks me if we plan on naming Big Sur, as the locals ain’t too keen on that. I point at the two foot crud and laugh we’d be doing them a favour if we did, but he fails to see the joke. Minutes later a man pulls up on a motorbike, drinking a premixed Budweiser and Clamato (clam and tomato juice). He tells me he used to surf here a lot, then laughs when I ask him why he doesn’t anymore. “Mainly the drugs and the alcohol!” he roars, before punching the air and hollering when one of the boys sticks and air-reverse. “Woo, nice trick man, ripping. These guys are good!”

Mich Crews scoring the first pit of the trip. Pic Shield

Cowboys, heavy locals and washed out junkies, on a few miles of beach in the middle of the wilderness. And that was just the morning… only in America ay.

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