A Santa Barbara Homecoming

Somewhere in West Texas, gazing upon the low, rolling hills of cracked dirt and dusted vegetation that extend seamlessly into the horizon, I was reminded of my upbringing as a deckhand on the family boat offshore of Santa Barbara. I thought of the long, juvenile stares into a similarly seamless horizon, a surprisingly soothing soundtrack of excited German tourists and my dad’s pirate-themed narration easing the lengthy summer days along.

I was beginning to like Texas, the people, rich in heritage, boisterous in greeting, and endlessly hospitable to us transient dirtbags. However, as my two road accomplices Jon and Kern dug their limbs deep into the engine compartment of our ’83 Vanagon for the umpteenth time, it was clear that the expansive geography, dry heat, and ever-permeating dust of this area were in opposition to our determined trek to the coast.

I was in the middle of a pilgrimage home from Tennessee, an ambitious three-month endeavor alongside two of my best Nashville buds who had recently decided surfing was their one and only pursuit. I was born and raised on the fickle sport, so I happily seized the role of tour guide, surf instructor, and documenter.