Winters in the Northwest are cold and wet—period. There’s no getting around it. But I was sick of it. So with my new-found companion, I decided to leave. I figured the old couple running the motel deserved to keep the money I’d given them earlier for the additional couple of nights because they had let me in when few proprietors would have, looking the way I did. We got into the truck and headed south, towards Mexico, as far away from the memories as I could get on what little money I had left.
Motion changes emotion, so we kept moving, stopping now every couple of hours, pulling well away from any traffic so she could do her business, which afterwards, turned into unbridled playtime.
“We’re going to have to come up with some sort of a name for you,” I said, tossing a pine cone she’d found and brought over to me. The thing was half again as big as her head. I was amazed she was even able to get it into her mouth. Tail wagging full speed, she was on it almost before it hit the ground. “Can’t just keep calling you pup, can we?” She didn’t seem to mind or care what I called her. We’d instantly become best friends, and I figured a name would come soon enough.
We slowly wound our way along the rest of the beautiful, rugged Oregon coast through Crescent City, down Northern California into the Redwoods, and over the Golden Gate Bridge. We hugged the coast as we made our way through Monterey and Big Sur. As we entered Morro Bay, an old road sign read:
HIGHWAY 41— EAST SIERRA NEVADA HIGHWAY “GATEWAY TO YOSEMITE”
“What d’ya think?” I asked her, saying the word Sierra out loud. I loved the way it effortlessly rolled over my lips, while offering up such a warm resonant sound, like a D-28 six-string Martin. I repeated it several more times, but I knew after hearing it the first time that my girl’s name was now Sierra.
We continued down the coast past Santa Barbara, Malibu and Hermosa into Laguna, where we spent an afternoon playing on the beach and checking out some of the old shops along the boardwalk. We bought a really cool hand-woven collar from a local artist and had a name tag stamped right on the spot that simply said Sierra on one side, and Corey Phillips on the other. The minute I put it on her, she proudly held her little head up like she’d just been crowned the Queen of England.
Laguna was a hard place to leave, but something was pulling at my soul, drawing me south, so with the sun kissing the top of Catalina Island on its way into the Pacific, we got back on the road, and by midnight we were pulling into another quiet little town, called Ocean Beach.
When your life finally flashes before your eyes, you will have only moments to regret all the things in life you never had the courage to try.
—Author Unknown
Chapter 5
Ocean Beach, California
The powerful infinite heart of the wave began to swell under her. She could feel it gaining force from the offshore trench as it approached. She spun around, timing her move perfectly. Water was now being sucked off the shallows by the fury building behind her. Having had nothing in its way since its journey began a thousand miles south, far off the coast of Baja, its unbridled dominance was now being challenged by a little outcropping of submerged rocks that slashed outwards from the sheer cliffs along the southern most section of this stretch of beach—its fury unleashing into madness at its destiny—the blackness giving way to a beautiful midnight blue.
She paddled. Deep, strong strokes. Effortlessly into the sweet spot … into the very heart of the wave. From the beach it looked as if the monster was going to swallow her whole. Several tourists stopped in their tracks, staring wide-eyed. The locals were watching, as well. How could anyone take his eyes off such a perfect pair?
Surrendering, her mind simply let go, allowing pure instinct to take control, as the wave continued to build. In an instant, she went from paddling to her feet. The blues changed colors behind her, turning white as the top of the huge wave began cresting overhead, forming into a perfect left. During a south swell, there was no place on earth she’d rather be. Shooting down the face, her left arm and hand gracefully reached out toward the wave. Her fingers were outstretched, not so much for balance, but because she loved caressing the face of the wave as she dropped in. The pure, silky blue melted between her fingers. It was her special way of saying thank you. She felt as if she were touching the face of God.
Spray exploded overhead, surrounding her in holy mist and completely obscuring her from everyone watching along the beach.
The wave continued to crash forward, unleashing tons of furious white water, its deafening roar filling the air for a thousand yards in all directions. The tourists, unable to move, stared in disbelief. One of the ladies formed a cross over her chest, believing she’d just witnessed a girl being killed by a giant wave.
But inside the wave, Jennifer couldn’t have been more alive. Every fiber of her body was charged with electricity. Words can’t describe what it’s like being inside a wave, especially a wave like this. After what seemed like an eternity, she shot out from beneath the crashing avalanche of white water into the afternoon sunlight. Effortlessly flying down the face, then turning back towards the foam, she hesitated for a split second before jetting up its face again and dropping back down. Her body blended into the wave, becoming one—a dance of pure harmony as their destinies carried them toward the beach.
“Unbelievable,” one of the locals murmured.
“No shit. What a ride,” another said, without taking his eyes off Jennifer, as she kicked out over the top of the wave.
Now outside the break, Jennifer’s pounding heart began to slow as she inhaled the rich ocean air. It had been an incredible ride. Perhaps one of the best of my life, she thought to herself, closing her eyes and thanking the gods once again for their gifts, for her sanctuary.
And for those few precious moments, the loneliness inside her wasn’t all consuming.
The People’s Republic of OB. A place that welcomes stray dogs, nude sunbathers and wandering souls alike with open arms—a perfect blend of huge old shade trees, blondes in bikinis, dilapidated beach shacks, and busted Volkswagen buses. With its skateboards, beach cruisers, fish tacos and juice stands, Ocean Beach is a quiet, little out-of-the-way community that really doesn’t give a damn about anything east of the boardwalk. Ocean Beach is sunshine, surf and sunsets, beach fires and good music, veggie burgers, guacamole and tofu, getting tan, getting tubbed, and getting laid. Squeeze some fresh OJ in the morning and hit the beach. Enjoy the breakfast of champions—sun flakes and surf.
We were getting low on funds, so before we melted totally into a beach life of having to collect empty soda bottles for refunds, I knew I’d have to find some work.
If it hadn’t been for Sierra, I may have never discovered Hodad’s. We were sitting on the tailgate of Little Green. Okay, I confess. I named my truck. I know it’s corny, but what can I tell you, it’s a ’51 Ford. My grandpa taught me how to drive it when I first started working the cannery, and it runs like a charm. All of a sudden Sierra’s ears perked up, and her tail started wagging. Sure enough, within a few seconds, an older gentleman walked up and stopped just short of us.
“Young man, it looks to me as if you’ve got yourself two of the most important things a man could ever want in life …” He paused as he looked us over. I didn’t interrupt his thoughts. “…A devoted dog and a good truck.”
His simple summation of my existence made me smile. I couldn’t help but smile whenever Sierra did some of her puppy stuff, but this was one