Long Lost World
When the weather gives way to surf and sun, one of the West’s last stretches of undeveloped coastline transforms into a blue and gold solitude.
by Josiah Roe
The report says a swell out of the west north west, just big enough to break (I think) on one of my favorite sandbars. Hope springs eternal so I text Jackie, throw my longboard into the van, and charge north picking her up along the way.
The golden hills tower over the break and the sets slowly work their way around a series of seamounts before beginning to break. Our small group has the entire stretch of coastline to ourselves.
In town, if it can be called that, locals have descended from the hills for the Apple Festival. Here, outside of cell coverage and reliable internet access, appointments are still made and expected to be kept. The most surefire way to talk to someone is to walk up to their front door and knock.
As the choir sings Woody Guthrie songs, we buy bloody mary’s and THC-infused shots of espresso as a neighbor presents John McAbery with some fallen California Bay Laurel from their property.
That evening we head south into the hills along roads and trails long unmaintained. The sea and sky becomes like tie-dye: cotton candy blue and pinks and purples, as the calls of elephant seals some 800’ below echo up to our campsite, the last of its kind in the Lower 48.
The only constant is change, but in some places it feels just a little bit slower than the rest.
