California: Not in A Surfing State

By Dan Hutton on October 31, 2010 in

Chilly water and poor quality waves had sent us back to shore earlier than we had bargained on. A hot breakfast at the all-you-can-eat buffet was the carrot that kept our spirits buoyed and the busy road on the way back to the car to shed our wetsuits was the only thing that stood between our freezing predicament and a toasty oasis.

Mike and I took our chance and bolted straight through a gap in the endless stream of weekday traffic. Unknowingly, we had just attempted to tame one of the busiest roads in southern California, the Pacific Coast Highway.

Our local host, Dan Ernest, reluctantly followed us, more as a concern for our welfare than anything.
“You stupid Aussies!” he called, managing to evade a speeding Dodge along the curb lane.
“The cops will nail us all for this.”

We didn’t look back.

“My mate Doug McNugget copped an eighty buck ticket only last week.”

Jaywalking a crime? No way. Not in California, the ‘surfing state’.

As we gathered our composure on the safety of the sidewalk, a highway cop on a chromed up Harley Davidson appeared from thin air. He gave a flick of the siren and cut his lights. As the roaring motor on his steel horse came to a rest we could tell this cop was not a happy camper.

With an ample backside that represented A-grade advertising for McDonalds, he struggled to dismount his steed. From behind his mirrored sunglasses and Village People moustache his face was as cold as stone.

“What do you surfers think you are doing?” he barked in our faces, “Show me some identification, NOW!”

“But officer, we just got out of the water,” Mike thought his thick Aussie accent would get us easily out of this one, “we don’t carry wallets on us, mate.”

“Well you do in my state!” he sneered and spat a gob of chewing tobacco on the pavement, “Now sit on the ground you three… malingerers.”

This was his state with his rules.

“No identification. Looks like I’m gunna have to take you guys in.”

His handcuffs were drawn and his service revolver is made more obvious. The fear of God was instantly instilled in our waterlogged brains. Was this the hefty price to pay for a surf in this lawful society?

“Listen, officer,” Dan spoke up, “my car is only over the road and I think I might have my wallet in there.”
The portly cop gobbed more chewing tobacco near our feet.

“Well… go on over and get it… boy!”

Dan was quick, real quick. He retrieved his wallet and flashed his driving license at the cop. The officer reached into his jacket and pulled out his charge book.

“This surf is costing you dirt bags eighty bucks each.”

We were relieved to avoid a trip to the big house but eighty Oxford scholars didn’t sit too well. Quick thinking dished up some pseudo names in the ballpark of ‘Mike Werver’ and ‘Todd Thompson’.

We were handed our tickets with our aliases inscribed. Smiling at his souvenir, Mike casually asked if we were going to see the copper at the policeman’s ball. An evil glance fired from our host Dan rapidly put the brakes on Mike’s comedy routine.

As the lawman left us in a roar of American motoring we were left wondering: a surf at a perfect Indonesian reef would be worth eighty bucks but a paddle in the dribble behind us at Huntington Beach was only worth forgetting.
Poor Dan Ernest was remarkably quiet over breakfast that morning, stewing over his outstanding fine. I am not too sure about Michael Werver, but I know for certain that Todd Thompson is still yet to pay his!

Sunny California; one of the proud founders of the modern surfing lifestyle, but in the eyes of some lawmen, the surfing lifestyle only helps to fill the quota in their charge books.