While the sight of the 1961 VW Bus wobbling down Interstate 5 at its top speed of 57mph suggested a sense of adventure, the surfboards on top and the angled, tri-shades of purple racing stripe down its side projected something more: we’re young and we surf. With the boards on top, the cavernous, open interior of the VW was filled with anticipation, stoke, and the tanned, lean bodies of four teenage boys from the South Bay. While three of those surfers were old hats at traveling for surf, the fourth, I, was on my first surf trip.

Two other vehicles completed our caravan, both additionally equipped with boards, bodies, and stoke as southwards the caravan rolled in the glow of post-sunset. The total trip time from our homes in Torrance to San Onofre State Beach was a mere ninety minutes (slightly shorter for a vehicle whose top speed doesn’t begin with the number “5”) but the anticipation elongated the trip to what felt like hours. Are we at the tits yet?

The “tits.” Let me explain. For those unfamiliar, San Onofre State Beach lies adjacent to the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station (the power plant part of the station is no longer operating but the facility still stores tons of nuclear waste). If in your mind you are thinking “Oh it’s close by?” no, it’s directly next to it. The road to the state beach passes by the plant and one could throw a rock from that road and hit the plant. Surfers rode waves within shouting distance of the plant. The “tits” were the two round containment shields in place to protect from any radiation leaking. For good measure, the “tits” had nipples on them. Probably a million surfers (and non-surfers for that matter) have driven by that nuclear plant and made that joke. We were no different. Once you saw the tits, you knew you were close.

I sat in the back seat of the VW but through the windshield saw the lighted, green road sign for our exit, Basilone Road. We hooped and hollered knowing our destination was a mere one and three-quarters of a mile down the road.  The lead vehicle of the caravan, a beige, late 70s Ford 150 exited onto the long winding exit ramp before getting off the paved road onto a small, dirt area at the end of the ramp. Both the bus and other vehicle followed the Ford.

The dirt area was dimly lit from the Interstate lights but in the distance the Pacific Ocean was black. The usual demarcation line between land and water wasn’t visible. Everyone got out and looked towards the west. In the crisp, Fall, moonless night I saw nothing but darkness. However the young surfers began to jump up and down with glee, throwing shakas and sporting grins that shown through the darkness. I stood to the side, confused.

“What’s going on?” I asked Bill, friend and owner of the adventure bus.

“Listen,” he said.

At first with all the whooping I couldn’t hear a thing but Bill shushed the young surf monkeys and in the distance I could hear something. Instead of looking out into the darkness I closed my eyes to find the sound with my ears. A muffled explosion could be heard in the distance. Then a louder one. Seconds later, a louder one.

I opened my eyes to find the driver of the Ford, Ben, standing next to me. He slapped me on the shoulder and said “The gods have been good to us, surf’s up.” Although I couldn’t see them I pictured the waves breaking in the distance, each explosion adding to the picture in my mind. In truth I had no idea what lurked out in the darkness, I was new to surfing, but my mind filled in the gaps.

We passed by the nuclear plant and I glimpsed the “tits.” The plant was well-lit and a single red light adored the tip of each breast. After paying at the state beach entrance we winded through the campground, the campsites lined to our right. Each spot held a couple of vehicles, a few people huddled around a campfire, surfboards littered about, and wetsuits hanging to dry. We pulled into our spot, spot #81, and in the light of the bus’s headlights I got my first glimpse of our home for the next few days. In the light I saw an old picnic table, fire ring, and a large patch of dirt. My first thought of San Onofre State Beach was “This is it?”

 

A few weeks ago on a trip to California I spent a couple of days camping at the beach with my friend Mike. We chose to camp at San Clemente State Beach, a few miles north of San Onofre. For one, the spots are a little more hospitable with trees and shade. Two, it’s closer to town and unlike when we were teenagers, it’s nice to have something besides a can of ravioli for dinner. While teenagers camping at San Onofre we almost never left the campsite, both nights at Clemente we went to town for dinner.

Unusual for summer, the swell was up. Way up. The swell was closing out the beach breaks so even though surfing was out we took a trip to Onofre to hang out on the beach. Re-creating the steps of thirty years prior we headed down I-5 and exited on Basilone Rd. At the top of the exit was the same dirt patch we had pulled off of and in the distance you could see the waves. The noise of the day traffic kept me from hearing them but like before my mind filled in the gaps. This time it was “picturing” the sound of the waves as I saw them break. We passed the tits and entered San Onofre State Beach.

Nothing has changed. Nothing. The campsites are still small, barren dirt patches containing only a picnic table and a fire ring. As we drove through the campground the sites are still occupied by a mixture of families on a camping trip and young kids/adults on a surf adventure. Boards lay scattered around each site with wetsuits hanging out to dry. Besides the year of the vehicle and the size of the boards I imagine if you took a picture when it opened in 1971 and one again in 1991 and 2016 they would look the same.

The campsites sit on a bluff above the beach and you have to hike down to the beach. We hiked down to find we had the beach to ourselves. Like above in the campground, the beach remains the same. A narrow area of sand lies next to the bluffs before the beach angles sharply down to the water. The beach near the water is layered with medium-sized rocks smoothed from years of being washed in the tide. I picked up one to bring back with me. After a couple of hours bodysurfing and catching rays we made the uphill hike to the parking lot. Not surprisingly the hike doesn’t feel as long when you’re not carrying a board.

Although it’s not a great place to camp, people keep coming back. Some will tell you it’s the proximity to the ocean. Some will tell you they enjoy the lack of crowds at the beach. And some will tell you it’s the gentle, rolling waves that make it a good surf spot for any level of surfer. San Onofre has all of those but those are the reasons people go there. The surfers come back for another reason; nostalgia, and San Onofre is overflowing with it. Just about every SoCal surfer made that pilgrimage as a teenager, exiting at Basilone Road, pulling into that dirt patch, and listening for the waves.

 

The next morning I paddled out for my very first surf at San Onofre. With the swell up the waves were breaking way outside. Farther out than I had ever surfed. But after getting past the inside whitewash it was an easy paddle to the line up. It’s not good ol’ day syndrome to say the waves that day were the best I’ve ever surfed at San Onofre. They were. On my first visit. Head high and with great shape we stayed out for hours. I’ve surfed good days at Onofre since, but not as good as that day. I also came to understand that morning, the need, or the want, to travel for waves.

That night we made a fire and gathered around it telling stories of waves ridden that day. On the fire various cans of chili and Chef Boyardee products bubbled from the heat of the flames. Boards laid scattered about our patch of dirt and wetsuits were hung to dry over open car doors. In the campsite next to us a family sat around the fire as the mom cooked their dinner. The father’s and son’s boards leaned against their van. In the spot next to that a group of surfers in their 20s drank beer around the fire animating their waves of the day.

San Onofre hasn’t changed a bit. A patch of dirt. Picnic table. A fire ring.

And we keep going back.