Early Sunday morning, April 20, 2008. Sometime during the night, the gale-force winds of Saturday ceased howling. Time for a wind swell dawn patrol.

Cut to highway 1, somewhere in DogLand. I pull the surf mobile from the asphalt onto the dirt and gravel shoulder adjacent to the Brussels sprouts fields. I can already hear the white noise of the pounding surf coming up the vertical cliffs and across the fallow field.

Crunch, crunch is the sound my sandaled feet make as I walk through the weeds and native plants now growing with abandon. They are heavy with morning dew, and slap at my shins with sodden whacks. Soon my sweat pants are moist from knees to cuffs.

A full moon is in the sky directly in front of me, doing its best impression of a blood orange as it sinks slowly but perceptively toward the southwest horizon. Already the dawn glow is starting in the east; the twin sources of illumination are sufficient and I stow the miniature flashlight in my pocket.

At the edge of the bluff I stand, gazing at the mutant reef below that is known to be a magnet for wind swell. The rough triangular shape of the reef points into the oncoming lines of swell, forcing each wave to peel both left and right. The rights are more commonly ridden, but the lefts can also be good.

With a minus low tide, craggy fists of reef punch through the surface of the ocean here and there, creating obstacles for wave riders. A slight but chill offshore breeze tickles the hairs on the back of my neck, so I pull the hood from my jacket over my head.

The waves look like typical wind swell, ugly but rideable. From where I stand, a narrow trail descends the near-vertical cliff. It's passable, but scary. I decide it's time to surf, but that a long hike into the spot might be preferable to the dangers of the trail.

Cut to a broad open sandy beach up the road a bit. It's here that I change into wetsuit, strap my backpack firmly in place, throw the board bag strap over one shoulder, and begin the long hike back to my chosen surf spot. Soon the cliffs ascend several hundred feet into the air on my left, while the surf rages on my right. The ocean is not any inviting color of blue or green. It's a cold, steely shade of grey, textured and bumpy from the winds of the day before, and mottled with white water patches in a large swath along the shore.

In the distance ahead, a large outcrop of rock juts from the base of the cliff and stretches across the sand into the water. It's a barrier to passage that appears to be a giant foot. The faces of the cliffs on my left are darkend here and there by long inverted triangles of moisture seeping out the rocks and spreading laterally as they stain the cliff face. Each triangle is colored by dark green, evidence of plant life clinging to the vertical rocky surface.

I arrive at the giant foot, and find hand and foot holds for climbing. I prop my board vertically against the wall so I can retrieve it once I get to the top. I stand on the giant foot and see the destination in the near distance. There are multiple outcroppings of reef between me and the surf spot.

The reefy shoals make for treacherous going. They are paved with patches of sharp-lipped black muscles interspersed with slippery slimy green water grass. I proceed slowly and carefully.

Finally, I make it to the surf spot and paddle to the lineup. The waves look rougher and more inconsistent from this vantage than they did from the top of the cliff. Peaks appear at random unpredictable intervals, approaching from unexpected angles. It's difficult to lineup in these conditions; I paddle back and forth, to and fro seeking the magic spot.

Eventually, I catch and ride several lousy waves, and one or two decent ones. I'm beginning to wonder what I'm doing in the water, when an overhead peak of water appears as if by magic. It apparently has my name written on it, so I stroke easily into the lip as it begins to break.

This ride makes up for everything else. I thread my way to the right, carefully bypassing each of the boils and uncovered fists of reef that might break my board. Sections form in front of me as I zoom; this wave is charmed. When I kick out, it's obvious I won't find anything better, so I wend my way over the reef to shore.

On the hike to the sandy beach, I pause to take a few photos. The high tide of the previous night has scoured the sand into pristine smoothness. Only two sets of footprints mar the perfection, one on the way in, one on the way out.

It's been a long morning and a lot of work for only a few waves, but it feels like a real adventure. Finally the wind has stopped, and I actually got to surf. My arms ache a bit because I haven't been in the water so much these days. I have to get the paddle muscles ready for the coming surf orgy in Mexico.

CU Out There,

DogMan