Sunday April 6, 2008 at 530AM. I'm standing by the side of the highway at the county line, staring at the dark and the slumbering Pacific Ocean. As a surfer, what I see through the pre-dawn gloom is not inspirational. Meager shin-high waves sporadically roll shoreward, then crumble in a powerless display of white water. The minus low tide has pulled the ocean edge far from the usual, uncovering stretches of wet sand and slimy reef.

It's clear no epic surf session is in store this morning, or even the entire day. In fact, it looks as though even a marginal go out isn't likely. While letting go of my hopes, I let go of my breath. A long exhaled breath accompanies a change of heart, and brings a source of inspiration. This morning it's all about the sounds. While opening my ears, I ponder the exhalation that brings this inspiration; one definition for inspiration is the intake of air into the body.

But this is a tangential; the real meaning of this morning is the sounds of my quest for morning waves. So far I recall hearing the sounds of driving alone on highway 1, the sounds of random cars whooshing down the road as I watch the ocean, the sound of the sleepy ocean, and the sound of my own breathing.

I abandon the County Line and drive slowly toward town, stopping at each outlook to see the ocean, and the surf breaks of DogLand. Along the way my ears are graced with other morning sounds along the shore. Atop the cliff above Dux reef, the echoing sound of sea gulls threads upward from the empty reef below. A large double-trailer sand truck lumbers down the highway, using the jake brake to break the morning air waves.

Next, I stop to check the view from the Top of the World. The precipice is so high above the water, and the waves below so lilliputian that no sound of surf reaches my ears. By now, a rosy glow begins to poke through and around the overcast along the horizon to the east.

At the beach break near HighLanders, I can hear waves again, but nothing is large enough to tempt me to don the rubber suit and enter the water. By now I am wound into the collection of sounds I am building. My ears are attuned to the world around me, and my brain is cataloging the library of aural stimuli.

Dave's place is deserted; the reef is uncommonly bare. This spot is normally surfed with a medium to high tide, so a minus low isn't going to be conducive to water sports. It's just as well, since there still ain't no waves.

Finally, I decide to hike from highway to shore to check one of the few secret spots I know. DogMan's Left doesn't break often, but a minus low tide and a straight south swell will make it fire. The swell in the water is westerly, but my optimism knows no limits. There is some reason for hope, since I can hear the sound of crashing waves bouncing all the way from the distant beach to my ears. This is a distance of almost 1/2 mile.

I lock the surfmobile and embark on a walk along the dirt trail. By now, a transition is in effect; the night chirping of crickets is on the wane, while the dawn chirping of birds is on the rise. From the north west I hear the lonely howl of a coyote. I've met these critters now and again as I travel this path, but this one is a long way from me.

Standing on the bluff overlooking the beach and point that is DogMan's Left, I once more see the same scene. There just is not enough juice in the ocean to make anything happen. Not only that, but the swell angle is not what this place needs to come alive. My optimism notwithstanding, it just isn't going to happen. I try to will the waves to arrive and straighten their direction, but you know how well that works.

I listen to my own footsteps as I return to the highway, crunching dirt and a few snails beneath my sandals. Back in the surfmobile, I traverse town, drive through the redwoods to my house in the mountains, and pull into my driveway. I can hear my dogs barking behind the fence as the anticipate my arrival. It's their breakfast time, you know.

Later, after my own breakfast, I type these notes and watch the live surf cameras of the major breaks in Santa Cruz. Indeed there are no waves, but there are sizeable crews in the water at the Lane, Cowells, and Pleasure. The surfers sit and bob; almost no one catches anything. Intermittently, someone rides a gutless shin slapper a short way at a slow pace.

My head is still full of sound, and now I add the click click click of the keyboard as I tap the story of the morning into the computer and hence into the DogMan Chronicles. This is a column about the stoke of surfing; this episode is about the stoke of the sounds of the coast during a dawn jaunt in early April, 2008.

CU Out There,

DogMan