His alter ego, the surfer, rises early for his own “dawn patrol”. It is daybreak and the two-lane frontage road is bumpy in spots. He doesn’t care; the board is secure on the rack, the sky is hot pink, and the sign of a new swell is on the horizon. His dog hugs his shoulder for a whiff of rushing cool air and he’s got some Honk playing on the old V-Dub radio. Handy are the coffee thermos, trail mix, wetsuit, board and leash. Today is a big day because they all are big days, a part of the great adventure. Pelicans glide in formation just feet above the break and there is an electricity in the moment. There are some buddies, surveying the morning’s break, mugs of “joe” in hand. They smile, a brotherhood and sisterhood, and greet one another, “What up?” There is a stoke in the air as the new swell builds. The first challenge of the day will be in deciding which board to pick out of the quiver.
He stands in the soft sand at water’s edge, toes sinking in, and surveys the open expanse of horizon and swells. There is rhythm here, like a beating heart, that calls him … wave after wave, no two exactly alike and he will move forward, driving his board into a glide through foam and a thousand blues of ocean swirl. Then there will be the determination of readiness, of which one he’ll choose to be his warmup wave, his first rush, his moment of being one with the ocean, his launch into a fine day. It is sport and lifestyle, whether on the water or on land, and it never really begins and never really ends. The beauty and love of being out there, sun and ocean, gold on blue, and being infused with an energy so spiritual just to be there is enough. It is beyond words. A surfer’s trajectory across the face of a wave is his musical score, his living story, his signature and art in motion.
Between waves, as he sits astride the board, he floats between his thoughts and the sea life around him. The sea lifts and falls like the chest as one breathes. A pod of dolphins ride the next wave with him … like herding dogs there for the round up.
Back on the ranch, the dogs are nipping and ready for work. They pace while their cowboy, the ultimate alpha “dog”, straps on a pair of spurs, loops his ropes, and saddles Big Mare. She is shifting hoofs, spirited, and ready with the dogs for the work and sport of round up. Beyond the splintered fencing, cows still graze but begin to notice activity, dust, voices, and preparation. It is akin to the wave building and the anticipation a surfer feels. Cowboys always have a plan, they call out, whistle, and the dogs are out front, circling the herd. There is a natural choreography but it’s far from any refined beauty of the stage. It is dirty, congested, rugged, and not without danger. Spit flies and the cows scatter requiring a multi-pronged chase. Expletives and the calf is cornered, dogs undeterred, cowboys closer to getting the herd penned. Waving their Stetsons, the cowboys’ queue behind the herd and give the dogs their “Good Girls and Boys”, praise with relief, the round up is complete. The branding will be tomorrow.
That night, the guys gather at Rusty’s Bar for drinks and a recap of the day. Western music rises and blares above the crowd. The Central Valley is home to Merle Haggard and a good dose of Country, including the “Bakersfield Sound”. A few venture out on the saw-dusted dance floor for a couple “two steps” in their dress boots. This is the “let go” after a good day and it’s Country-California-style.
The life of these two riders, surfer and cowboy, seemingly miles apart, are on a parallel in so many ways. Their chosen lifestyles are defined by spirit as much as geography, and it’s not about money or financial wealth. The reward is in something less tangible, something like living life in the simplest terms, no frills, basic needs, and the adventure of it all. There is no attachment other than the freedom and love of what they do. How many people driving down the freeway, going to work in big buildings, or in suburbia, drift easily to dreams and fantasies of doing life this way. “If everybody had a notion!”
They imagine either and both: gliding out, skimming over the shore water to meet the first wave, or getting in the saddle and nudging pretty mare into a canter as they head out on a plateau. Human psyche is drawn to this visceral connection to nature, rising early, heading into the elements. Surfers wear trunks, rolled-up chinos, slaps and a hoodie, while cowboys wear denim jeans, plaid shirts, a canvas jacket, and dust kicker boots. Utility and comfort dictate and a crazy fun color “talks”. The gear matters, whether it be any day or a day at the surf meet or rodeo. Surfers have much to do with the advent of “sport utility vehicles”, although the classic VW van is most associated with their lifestyle. Their rigs are compact, earthy, and practical. Cowboys and trucks go hand in hand and the truck better have a hitch! These vehicles are capable, all terrain, utilitarian, and serve as campers when the need arises. Versatility is the bottom line. Both savor sleeping under the stars and rising to a spectacular red-hued sunrise, near the embers from last night’s campfire, and still whistling the song played on guitars and mouth harps after dark. There is nothing better than a gathering of like-minded seekers ready to tell some tales, grill garden greens and local fish or steaks for dinner while sharing some worthy beers. “The claim we hold is good as gold, Bonanza!”