Abalone

April 2023

Heading north from my brother's zone, the coast becomes seemingly more desolate and exposed. The famous Ranch that borders the coastline is something of a legend in these parts, talked about fondly by those who grew up working or knowing the family, and holding an almost mythical presence in the minds of those who know it from its history - and no, this is not Hollister Ranch. Growing up, my brother and I spent a lot of time wandering the hills in these parts. Surfing and exploring a coastline that is known for its danger factors - reefs, quickly changing weather, and sharks. As we drove along the highway, I was excited, reminiscing about the last time we surfed this spot. An empty lineup and a specific swell window, coupled with limited access and the possibility of a trespassing charge, made this spot even more appealing. The last time we surfed it, we scored. But this was 3 years ago. After California’s back-to-back atmospheric river events, breaking rainfall and snow records across the state, we were skeptical that the spot would hold even something remotely similar to the sandbars we had stumbled upon a few years prior.

As we drove, looking out the window and listening to music, neither of us said a word. We were just enjoying each other's presence and taking in the scenery that makes this part of California so spectacular. Cattle roam across the rolling hills. Oak trees line the ridgelines. Eucalyptus waving us gently onward. You can smell the sage and the mustard plants that cover the hillsides. The purple lupine and orange poppies create a sort of dreamlike vision. All the colors and smells that defined our childhood and seemed to always be there. The nostalgia always drowned out the worries of everyday life as I daydreamed about sleeping in those hills like a sort of Steinbeck hero stuck in time.

The fog bank that had crept in halfway through our drive started to slowly fade away as the late morning sun burned a hole through to the ocean. Deep blue shimmering as we turned each corner of the road, looking out over reefs and bays that seemed endless. As we approached the spot, I wondered if we would be as lucky as before. We grabbed our gear and quickly exited the vehicle, hopping a cow fence and disappearing behind thick chaparral, mainly poison sumac, that protected the pines. Making our way out along the bluff and down the cliffside, it was clear that the swell had shown up as planned, but the tide was a bit too low. Without hesitation, we continued on, accepting our fate. Once down in the giant cove, we sat down and decided we would wait out the tide and explore around the next point to see if there were any other waves that might be working. Stashing our bags and boards, we walked what seemed like a mile out and around a point to the south end of our dreamland. As we walked and talked, I told my brother, it sure would be nice to stumble on some abalone shells. It had been some years since I had found a good one. The abalone population is dying out, and the iridescent shells that used to line the coastline are slowly fading away.

Almost immediately after I spoke the word abalone, my brother bent over and picked up a small shell. “Here’s one!” We looked it over, amazed by its color and lore. “Let’s keep going,” he said. As we made our way along the rocky tide pools, we found more and more, filling up our pockets until we had no room left to collect. As we got closer to the exposed reef that made up the tip of the point, we realized we still had a couple of hours before the tide filled in. We talked it over and decided to run back to our gear, suit up in our 5/4s, and put some booties on so we could sift through the waist-deep pools looking for more intact shells. We ran back and suited up, me grabbing a small bag and him grabbing a basket to put the shells in. We made our way back out to the reef. The smell of exposed seaweed whipped up by the light onshore wind made us feel like we were at the edge of the world. Waves broke on both sides of the rocky triangle, with water gently running over the boulders and into the pools. We dodged urchins and slipped around, pulling up shell after shell. Every time we found a new one, we would yell over to each other, showing off our bounty. I felt like a kid again, playing in the dirt with my brother in our backyard. We laughed and joked, helped each other lift up small boulders and wiggle free shells that had been stuck for years, lodged between rocks collecting sand and barnacles.

“How you boys doin’?” we heard from behind us. We turned around to two men dressed in green uniforms, gun on the hip. “Good, how are you doing?” we responded. “What are you two up to?” said the ranger. My brother responded quicker than I could think, “collecting shells,” as he held up a monstrous and perfectly intact shell. “Just shells?” asked the ranger. I replied yes. “Can we take a look in those bags just to be sure?” he replied. “Sure thing, have at it,” I said. “Wow you guys have found some good ones out here, see any live abalone yet?” he said. “Couple over at the end of the reef in about 4 feet of water, but not many,” I said. We waited as they continued searching our shells, hoping that our fun would not run out with a quick confiscation of the blessings we’d received. “Alright,” he finally spoke, “you guys have a good day, we just wanted to make sure you weren’t taking any live abalone, or anything else for that matter.” I asked if someone had called us in or how they even found us, seeing that we were pretty remote and in an area that had zero public access. He told us they were on a quick break from driving up and down the coast and decided to walk out along the bluff and saw us down there. “We saw you guys and figured there was a 50% chance you were poachers and a 50% chance you were hardcore shell collectors. Just wanted to make sure.” We said our thanks, and they made their way back up the cliffside and disappeared across the bluff.

After hours of shell collecting, our feet sore from bending around small rocks and slipping into cracks as we waded in the tide pools, we called it quits and made our way slowly back to our stuff. As we walked back, I looked out over the cove, realizing that we not only didn’t surf but that we had completely abandoned the idea of surfing without even knowing it. We had so much fun out on the reef, looking at starfish and sea snails, collecting shells, and feeling like we were treasure hunters that we had forgotten about the head-high right-handers that were finally showing up in the cove with an incoming tide. The wind was now unfavorable at best, and even if we wanted to, which we didn’t, the surf would have been rough. I thought quietly to myself about how surfing has shaped my life and how hunting for waves turned into a beautiful day spent with my brother. Surfing is, and always will be, important—but giving ourselves the freedom to wander allowed us to discover the many other offerings the ocean holds for us.

We gathered our things and made our way back out along the bluff, turning around to get one last glimpse of the Shangri-La we had discovered. We looked at each other and shared a smile as my brother finally said, “he called us hardcore.”