Surfing at Campus Point - UCSB

Surfing Campus Point on Saturday, January 16.   

If you're working or learning at UCSB,  you are a short walk from one of the most popular surf spots in the county.  In fact, the beach is right across the street from some of the student residence halls.  Susan and I took the ten minute drive from our house to Campus Point with her brother Tom and his wife,Susan, on a beautiful day when the sun was out and the surf was up.  The UCSB Marine Lab is in the background.   

When we arrived we scanned the water, looking  for my brother, Peter and my  10 year old son, Toby. For months,  Peter has been teaching Toby to surf.  They started on boogie boards and Toby has gradually worked up to a regular surfboard.  And for Christmas, the family chipped in on a winter wetsuit. We all went out to the beach to see how they were doing.  At The Point there were several dozen surfers bobbing in the water.

Four to six foot waxes were coming in ahead of a Pacific Storm (it's raining today) and the 4 to 6 foot waves were steady all afternoon.

The scene included young guys shredding and a group of old school guys like this one with a woody  - a classic hand built all wood long board!  Dude! Your board is gnarly!  

We spotted Toby in The Cove waiting for a set to come in.

Toby and Uncle Peter turn around and get ready to ride!  Peter was a student at UCSB and has been surfing since the early 70's.  Now he teaches US History to UC students and surfing to his nephew. Maybe this is why some  people say that UCSB stands for UC-Surf-Board

Toby rides in on his knees.  He's just about ready for

his first stand up ride!

We were there as Toby went from knee boarding to standing up to get his first ride the shore without a wipe-out.  And so cool to see him learn to ride the waves with his uncle - a genuine old-school surf dude.    

STREET PARKED CLASSICS - Now With Surf Racks!

A 1963 Studebaker Lark - With Owner!  He said his family bought the car used in 1964 and he restored it when he was 16.  Yesterday he took it to the beach and went for a kayak ride (click to enlarge).

Two classics from the same year on the same day!  This 1963 Chevy Bel Air lowrider was in the parking lot while the owner was presumed out in the surf.  Liked the "Praise the Lowered" sign in the window and the hand pinstriping.  "Charp!" (click to enlarge)

Fears and Dreams

I used to know an old cowboy who was also a Deputy Sheriff.  He was big man who sometimes did law enforcement the old way -  with a gunbelt and a Steston on horse back.  Picture a quieter, low key version of John Wayne. He'd stop in to visit the ranch I was working on, sometimes to hunt quail or just shoot the breeze.  When it was time to go he'd say,  "I'm done bein' here". I was always struck by the good humor and the clarity of that statement.

After months of debate and delay Susan and I have decided that we're "done bein' here" in Santa Barbara. And in that decision, all things become clear and we're dashing away from the starting line as if the starter fired a pistol.

But last night I was visited by ghosts.  A series of mental knocks and dragging chains that woke me and tormented me at 3:00 AM.  What about the career success I promised myself but never achieved here?  What about the business I started and built in Santa Barbara, only to watch it deflate in the current economic calamity?  What about  this new venture of farming?  The ghosts were swirling and stirring up my fears of failure.  Feelings of remorse arrived with each review of my past.  The ghosts said, "Look at all the ways you have failed!" What about the time I wasted instead of building success? What makes me think I can DO this?

The intention to move has been ours for years.  The physical move is now beginning.  I've just discovered that I'm not quite ready yet to saddle up. I've got a lot of work to do and a long way to go before I can face the spirits of fear and doubt and confidently say to myself, "I'm done bein' here."

TODAY'S STREET PARKED CLASSIC

  I stopped in for a dentist appointment and saw this nicely kept '66 Mustang in the parking lot.

Farmville Goes to Town

I heard on the radio today that some 65 million people are regular players of the game "Farmville" on Facebook. It's a simulation game that allows people to pretend to live on a farm.

It seems there are a lot of people, tens of millions of them, who yearn for a chance to escape their complex daily lives for a few minutes or hours a week on their virtual farm.

People who live in the country know that the hours are long, money is always in short supply, that neighbors are nosy and that the work is hard and sometimes dangerous. It's not nearly as easy or simple as the "farm dream" that propels others into a virtual farm. We too find that the distance between our farm in Prince Edward Island, Canada and our suburban home in Santa Barbara, California is greater than mere miles as the jet flies.

Part of my effort on the Dunn Creek Farm blog this winter is to share with our country friends what it's like to live in the city. Just as there are those who yearn for the life they imagine they'd find on a farm, there are those who wonder what it must be like to live in a coastal resort city.
Well here are a few notes just for you.

I heard an interview with a woman on CBC Radio 1 last year. She was talking about raising kids in Urban North America and said, "We keep our children under virtual house arrest." She was talking about the piles of homework schools send home and the supervised play and activity and the restrictions we place on our kids because of fear. I immediately added to that the hours logged onto video games and TV. Her words have stayed with me.

In the country, we send our kids to the beach, or to the neighbors to play and they walk or bike most places around us. We know they can find their way home. We know that everyone knows who they are and where they belong. And they know that we'll hear about any mischief they get into.

But here, we city people tend to pack our kids into a van and shuttle them off to school and afternoon play dates. We create and schedule organized activities. We have eliminated unsupervised play time and yes, the rest of the time our children are under virtual house arrest. There is very little real freedom for kids here. That thought has troubled me lately. If we want to raise kids to appreciate and value living in a free society, this hardly seems to be the way to go about it. Especially since what we model for them says, "be afraid of your surroundings and don't trust others." It's an extension of the same thinking that keeps us disconnected from nature and willingly ignorant about what sustains and gives us life. It also explains why a lot of kids are overweight and listless. And so today I went on a mission.

My nine year old has a friend who lives about three miles away. When the boys want to get together it's an effort to arrange parent pickup and dropoff, scheduled arrival and departure and of course we must work around all those scheduled activities.

Today I said to him, "We could ride our bikes over to your friends house. And then he could ride back here with us. I can show you boys the shortcuts where cars don't go and we can stay off of the busy streets." He paused and seemed doubtful. So I persisted. "It'll only take us about 15 minutes to get there." He brightened up, put on his shoes and got out his bike.

The ride is almost the same as the route I took to and from high school every day for four years. We had no school bus then and almost nobody thought they had to give their kid a ride to school every day. We all biked or walked in our year 'round climate.

It was beautiful and sunny today as we left our house and crossed past my boy's school heading up through the rolling hills of our San Roque neighborhood. The route took us past my old home street and we stopped near the top of the hill to rest. Then, like Radar on MASH, my ears picked up a familiar sound from 40 years ago. An ice cream truck!

My son didn't hear it. When he did, I had to explain to him what it was. "It's ice cream!" Again my boy looked dubious. The beat-up old truck came chugging toward us with it's merry music blaring and I waved it to a stop. We got a couple of Life Saver flavored popcicles. And there, on the same street where I once ran for the ice cream truck with a shiny dime in my hand, I caught up with it and felt like a 9 year old again. Until that moment my 9 year old never even knew such a thing ever existed.

We met our friend and took off again for home. After a short stop to visit grandma (and the house I grew up in) I told the boys they'd have to navigate on the way back. "Which Way?" they'd say. "Pick a direction" I'd answer. And off we'd go. With a little help they managed to find the way.

As we flew down the streets they learned to dodge cars, play chase and had a running pretend shootout that lasted for a mile. It was fast and it was spontaneous. It was full of laughs and a taste of adventure. It was freedom.

Today's Streetparked Classic


1939 Ford Truck (click to enlarge)