Three friends, two surfboards and no skill

By Christie Genochio

Until last week I was a phony, a counterfeit California girl. Thirty minutes away sits Santa Cruz, surfing Shangri-la, and like many Santa Clara students I'd never even touched a board. I've dined there; I've done the Boardwalk thing. But I'd never gone on a surfing safari.

To remedy this, my friends Timi and Mallorie agreed to join me on a quest for surfer status. This is our story. Glean from it what you will.

Local color

Upon arriving in Santa Cruz we strolled along Main Beach, where we met with an amiable homeless man. Apparently this fellow thought he knew our photographer, judging by his friendly invitation to take a pull from his vodka for breakfast in the public bathroom. They'd become fast friends.

"Man, we're just hoping it doesn't rain so we don't have to sleep in a leaky bush, you know?" said the man. Before leaving us, he added, "By the way, you three are all so beautiful. No offense to him, but I'm not into guys."

The girls and I blushed. We wanted to be his friends, too. Even if he didn't offer us liquor.

Of wetsuits and walruses

Our pre-surf program required chowder-in-a-bread-bowl loading, which led us to the Ideal Bar and Grill. This festive wharf-side cantina has an interior built like the inside of an upside-down boat, clever coathooks attached to the corrugated steel bar and Johnny Cash in the background.

After lunch we replenished the parking meter ($1 per hour) and sauntered across the street to Cowell's Surfshop to barter for surfboards and wetsuits with Mike, the salty seaman running the store.

There's something about Cowell's, with the cluster of leathery-skinned surfer folk loitering in the parking lot and the insider tide advice dispensed by the swarthy shopkeepers, that gives it uncommon street cred and sets it apart from its Beach Street competition.

And for $75 two longboards and three suits would be ours for the entire day. Mike's sarcasm and impatience came free of charge.

FYI: Cowell's rents out soft top, fiberglass, boogie and skin boards as well as beach chairs and volleyballs. Lessons are $70 and include a board, wetsuit and instruction.

I was the last of our trio to don my surfer garb. The wetsuit seemed too small and taut, so I approached it with suspicion and fear. Surely it meant to humiliate me, to draw attention to every unfortunate body bulge and betray to the world just how much I'd enjoyed my clam chowder.

But I had no choice. Wear it I must.

It took a team effort for us to wriggle into our wetsuits. The process involved much grunting, pulling, yanking and a variety of other deeply un-sexy exertions.

And it was completely worth the anguish.

I felt sleek, streamlined, powerful and blessedly warm. So, this is how water mammals feel, I thought. I am a dolphin, I am a porpoise...no, I am the Walrus. John Lennon wasn't tripping on acid. He was singing about a wetsuit.

These magical suits not only protect you from the elements, but they also fit like gloves. Gloves, I tell you -- gloves of attractiveness, gloves of chowder-forgiving slimness.

If you go surfing, rent one. Nay, buy one. Wear it to class, wear it to parties, wear it to bed. Trust me.

Kiddie pool

Once properly attired we were ready to surf.

We chose Cowell Beach because it's the most novice-friendly: the bunny slopes of Santa Cruz County's beaches. In this quiet cove most waves are only slightly bigger than those made when a fat guy does a cannonball into a kiddie pool.

Any fears were allayed when we saw hordes of children under age seven romping in the surf, toting boards and riding waves. We'd intruded upon a small-fry surfing tournament.

Never mind the fact that these kids -- most of whom probably wear footie pajamas -- were kind of better than us. We were relieved that if any of our fellow boarders started talking smack, we could probably take them.

Time and tide

It should be noted that our first surfing attempt was carefully timed; Mike advised us that 1:30 p.m. was low tide that day, and low tide means the choicest waves. Sure, we didn't wait a half hour after eating, but time and tide waits for no woman.

Here's what I learned through observation and personal failure: First, paddle out to where confident-looking people are and pretend to see the invisible waves they point at. Lie on top of your board and start paddling ahead of the crest when the veterans mobilize. At the moment you meet the swell, push yourself up onto your board and ride the wave.

Only Mallorie, the North Dakotan, took the Pacific on with bipedal brilliance. I barely made it onto my stomach, but even that was exhilarating.

The score may be Ocean: 1, Christie: 0, but I will have my day. Mike gave me a book of tides and times and May 13 at 6 a.m. looks like a good day for a rematch.

Contact Christie Genochio at (408) 551-1918 or mgenochio@scu.edu.