Rhino Roams Cali
Ever been on a surf trip with no surf?
In 2000, I packed my boards and jetted off on a Delta 747 from Heathrow to LAX, via Detroit. I’d been to California for the World Surfing Games in 1996, and was sort of expecting to recreate the experience with my best buddy Tall Paul and long time friend, Reesy. I thought I was going for a surf trip.
After shooting the pier at Huntington in ’96 and surfing the most incredible waves, that’s what I was expecting again. I imagined a few weeks hanging out at the beach in California, staying at our friend, Corey’s amazing house in Sunset Beach and, quite honestly, living the Californian surf dream.
Packed up and ready for the off, we pulled up to collect Reesy when his Mum came to the door. He was absolutely, humdingingly drunk after being out the night before and after tumbling him and his bags into the van, he slept the whole drive to Heathrow.
We checked in at LHR and somehow got him on the plane. There was not a soul on the jumbo as we boarded and Reesy fell asleep before takeoff. Tall Paul and I got stuck into several drinks and thanks to the empty flight, we ended up with a row of five seats each, to sleep the duration of the flight to Detroit.
After a long, boozy flight, we arrived in LAX ready for sleep and were met by Corey who insisted on going straight out for a night in his local, Mother’s Bar. Corey’s house was in Sunset Beach, just off the Pacific Coast Highway, an area slightly inland from the coast, with private waterways and pontoons outside the houses. No sooner as we’d dumped our boards and bags, did we find ourselves in a dingy rowing across the water to Mother’s Biker Bar, where we arrived to bikes, briefs, bras and booze.
Partying away, we busted through the jet lag and met a ninety year old former headmaster, who’d retired, moved to the USA, and had befriended Corey. He was delighted to chat with us as Brits, and talked the night away before accepting a ride home in the dingy with us. So there we were, four drunken Welsh kids and a ninety year old headmaster, slip sliding the muddy banks and trying not to fall out en route.
Over the next couple of days, we took in the sights of LA with Corey, got lost and ended up driving through Compton and running a red light to escape a drive by shooting, saw the Hollywood sign and Rodeo Drive, barbecued at the beautiful Laguna Beach, went fishing and surfed with dolphins. It was amazing. But there was something seriously lacking with the surf.
This is often the case with surf trips. It’s unlike any other trip you can plan for, because you cannot plan for perfect waves. No matter how hard you try and how much the long range charts promise a good forecast, there’s just no telling if it’ll actually deliver on the day.
I’d been expecting the world class waves I’d watched for years on surf clips, waves I’d surfed myself in ’96 and instead, Huntington’s strip of famous surf nestled next to an eight lane highway, was less than average, distinctly mediocre. And this left me in a new, and unexpected situation. My expectations were high, and the reality was somewhat a letdown.
What to do on a surf trip with no surf?
Perhaps Corey had had enough of our drunken misadventures after a couple of nights, or perhaps in his wisdom, he realised that we’d be missing out on a bucket list experience by spending the whole three weeks with him.
One night, sitting on the pontoon with a couple of beers, and on his suggestion, we decided to explore the state in more detail. We hired a pretty vegas looking Chrysler Voyager and set off on a road trip of California. We’d actually pre-booked a flight to San Francisco on a budget airline that went bust before we could take it.
With hindsight, this was a huge blessing in disguise.
Rising early, boards strapped to the top of our four wheels, we set off in the dark with complete freedom, a very loose plan of where to go and the adventure of a lifetime. I’m not sure where we thought we’d be surfing in the middle of the Californian desert, but the boards were coming along for the ride!
With the smell of the coffee pouring out of the 7/11, we drove as far as Barstow in the heat of the desert, like something out of Natural Born Killers. Before stopping to tuck into burgers and chips at 10.30am … only in America! And our destination of Las Vegas was in sight for the end of the day.
We rolled up on the Vegas strip at about three that afternoon. With no sat nav and only paper maps to guide us, we thought we must be lost, and on the horizon saw a few buildings which turned out to be Las Vegas, despite our initial thoughts that it was too small. We drove down the strip with a car loaded with surf boards in the middle of the desert and the crowds hardly batted an eyelid… anything goes in Vegas!
We didn’t get married in Vegas or gamble away our limited budgets but we did explore Downtown Vegas, which was pretty cool, perhaps because it was the real Vegas, away from the tourists and the casinos. The locals filled the bars and shared their stories and gripes about Vegas with us, away from Vegas.
For years as a child I’d had the Raymond Briggs’ book, Father Christmas, and somewhere deep inside, the believer in me wondered if I’d catch him sitting in Cesar’s Palace with his monocle and whiskey, having a right old jolly. I didn’t manage to catch him, he must have moved on just in time, but I was taken aback by the old lady who sat by me on her bandit all night, and when I woke for breakfast the next morning, she was still sitting there, slotting her cents into the machine. She was a wisened old soul and couldn’t quite pass for Mother Christmas, but, just like Briggs’ story, she still left a lasting impact.
We weren’t that interested in the casinos so we visited man’s vast creation, the tall, wide, spectacle that is the Hoover Dam. It was amazing for its mark on the landscape of the valley, and standing at the top, we looked out over the torrents of water carving jagged banks in the rock formations, like a snake silently slithering through the undergrowth.
That evening, we went out for some food and karaoke for Tall Paul’s birthday. I will always remember his 26th birthday in Las Vegas, singing Tom Jones’ Green Green Grass of Home and drinking beers and bourbon in Downtown Vegas. My first and last time singing karaoke, was in Vegas.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!
The breakfasts in Vegas, big American breakfasts with that delicious crispy bacon and sunnyside eggs, really were the breakfasts of champions. And they were sorely needed to soak up the night’s festive Vegas-ness!
We left Vegas to drive through Death Valley en route to San Francisco. The temperature in Vegas was swelteringly high, but it rose and rose and rose as we delved further into Death Valley. 42, 46, 48 degrees, and with no water and no food, our full trust was in the hire vehicle not breaking down en route. We stopped at the Death Valley Park Store and filled up with water and supplies.
There wasn’t much in the way of wildlife that we could see, but one thing I do remember noticing is the birds. They looked oily and as if they were sweating…do birds even sweat? I know I certainly was!
The road through Death Valley was so well maintained, it had no business in a hot, arid desert. Rolling through the dusty area with a 50mph speed limit, monitored by small propeller aeroplanes, ready to fine any unexpecting speeding vehicles, the yellow dust of the earth danced in the waves of the heat as we looked through the car windows.
We stopped at Zabriskie point, where the heat was unbearable, and we kept the engine and the air con running as we stepped out to take in the incredible view over the Armagosa Range. It was so hot that the air con was on full blast inside, but the window was still hot to touch. Back in the shop we’d pictures on the wall of Death Valley in the snow, which was unimaginable from the ferocious heat that we were experiencing that September.
From there we drove to Yosemite National Park, through a checkpoint, and the park ranger gave us the lowdown of the must dos and must nots. Including the bears. Watch your food if you’re having a picnic and so on… and not having planned the trip beforehand, the first thing we did, was went looking for the bears.
We didn’t find them. Sadly, or not.
The wildlife and the views were spectacular, including the famous El Kapitan flat faced cliff. The lush, thick green of the trees and the cooler air in stark contrast to the hot barren land of Death Valley was a welcome relief. We drove out through the remaining miles of the park, with a storm overhead and as the lightening struck those lush green trees, we were waved on by the marshalls as the embers of the fires blew in the wind.
We didn’t quite reach San Fran that day, but pulled up in a motel for the night, before making the final onward journey the following day. We found a motel, went out looking for the bendy road, purposely drove across Golden Gate Bridge just to tick it off the list, and despite it being rather underwhelming, we got the photo nonetheless.
We also did fisherman’s wharf, the San Fran tram, and as Alcatraz was fully booked, we did what every Welshman would do, and we went to an Irish Bar.
“They’re Irish” the American gesticulated under his breath to his mates on hearing our accents, and we embraced and cemented the Celtic bond by ordering another Guiness and settling in for the night.
Our Celtic rugby heritage delivered in bounds on another night, as we were propelled to the front of the queue for the club, also gaining access to the VIP room simply because of our knowledge of the fine game of rugby. Who’d have thought that a San Francisco bouncer, we guessed a player of the game himself, would have recognised our Welsh accents and indulged us in both rugby talk and priority passes.
I went on this trip, thinking we’d be going on a surf trip, and we didn’t do that. What we did, was probably the best thing ever. We went on a trip that wasn’t a surf trip, and we explored and had an adventure that would have never happened, had the surf been pumping. All the trips I’d done before that point, had been fully focused around the surf, and this was a real eye opener. A lesson in how, when the plan doesn’t work, just go with it. And that there is a whole world out there, once you go through that keyhole.
The final leg of the trip was back to LA along the Pacific Coast Highway and with hindsight, I feel almost that I was looking in the wrong direction the whole 400 miles. I was looking out to sea, looking for waves, checking the surf, as I was familiar with, and in doing so, I wasn’t looking behind me at the spectacular sights inland.
For sure, this was a real pivotal moment in my travelling experience and my travel for surf too. And with the pressure to surf removed from the equation, the keyhole to new experiences was opened.
And I realised in that moment, that as much as surfing would always be deeply rooted in my soul, it was not the sole adventure in my life, and with that, my world was about to explode far beyond the contest site.
