Hey fellow Adventurists -- just a quick tip: if you're not a member of Travelzoo's email list, sign up now.  I've been receiving numerous travel emails for years now, but none of them tops Travelzoo for sheer deal awesomeness.

In my email today? A 4-night stay at a 4-diamond Puerto Rico resort, INCLUDING airfare, for $349 per person [link].  It also includes free casino credit and a 20% discount at the spa.  Not exactly a great way to get to know the locals and culture (an Adventure it is not), but not a bad getaway for a quick taste of the Carribean.  The deal is available for dates between August 8 and October 9, but sign up sooner rather than later, because the deals from the Travelzoo email go fast.

Hit me up if you're going -- maybe I'll see you there.

If my trip to California taught me one thing, it's that I am ill-equipped to handle the day-to-day, body-destroying, spirit-crushing endeavor that is the surf trip.  On the two days of seven that we got skunked, I was quite literally -- though silently -- rejoicing. 

On the return flight to Michigan, between bouts of crippling dysentary (the fish tacos, maybe?), we talked about getting back into surf shape -- making sure that when the Fall rolls around and the water starts acting like it should again, we would be ready to paddle out and catch wave after wave.  Or at least, in Lake Michigan, mushy roller after mushy roller.

I keep hearing it said that the best exercise for getting in surf shape is open ocean swimming.  In my case, the Lake will work just fine, but driving out there on a daily basis isn't completely possible, so to the pool I went.

Getting to the pool, however, I found that I didn't really know what to do with myself.  I swam back and forth, trying to master the crawl, breaststroke when my breathing became erratic and I felt like the end was near, using a kickboard and wishing they'd let me paddle a board in the pool (I haven't asked, but I'd assume bringing a 9-foot longboard to the gym's pool is a no-no).  The my wife gave me something that changed it all, a beginner swim program she got from Women's Health (read the article), but I'll be damned if it didn't beat me severely and mercilessly.  The folks at Women's Health cheerfully call it "The Mix Master Workout".

I, however, have a slightly different name for it -- the Bataan Death March.  Crass, yes, but it deserves it's cringeworthy moniker.

For new swimmer like me, it showed me just how far I have to go to get myself in prime wave-catching shape, or even in a shape that could paddle in from a nasty rip current or hurriedly swim to shore after a carnivorous fish takes an exploratory bite out of the bottom of my board.  The results are good.  A couple of 3-4 day weeks into the program, and I'm feeling stronger and more lean -- though the bar is set, admittedly, rather low. 

For those of you who want to try it out, it's below, or you can read the whole article at Women's Health:

	STROKE	LENGTH (yards or meters)*	SETS	REST (seconds)	EFFORT
WARM-UP	Any	200	1	10-30	3
MAIN SET (for a longer workout, repeat the main set)	Rotate: breast, free, back, free	50	4	10-20	5-6
	Rotate: breast, free, back, free	50	4	10-20	6-7
	Free	100	1	20-30	5-6
	Any (except free)	50	1	10-30	7-8
	Kick (on your side or back, or using a kickboard)	25	2	5-10	6
COOLDOWN	Any	100	1		3

 

Southern California, a strange half-remembrance of this place though I've never been here, I guess the coastline burned in our cultural consciousness from thousands of movies and TV shows. Streets are lined in palm trees. Paul tells me they're not native, I ignore him because it shatters my fantasy of this place. Rust-free vintage cars run on every road, the Pacific stretches endlessly in either direction.

Traveling the coast, place names are as familiar as street names in my hometown: Huntington Beach, Newport, Trestles, Orange County, Seal Beach, Malibu, Long Beach. We've been here since Saturday, and we've been hearing "should've been here yesterday" at every break from San Diego to Ventura.

That's alright. We sit and bob in the current on borrowed longboards, knee-high rollers meandering their way past us, eyes on the horizon for the one that we'll turn and paddle for. The sea salt has seeped into my skin and hair -- I can smell it even when I'm away from the beach, my body exuding it like alcohol after a night of binging.

In spite of their reputation, the people here are friendly. No road rage, no gang violence (though we're hardly in the area for it), no getting called a kook at the break. We've sat and chatted in the water and on the beach to other riders, who are always shocked that we surf in the Great Lakes, looking at us like we might next tell them we're actually Martians, not Michiganders. A little boy who was bodyboarding next to us at Seal asked me if there were sharks in the Lakes.

I suppose that's one stereotypical characteristic of SoCal that's actually true -- when you're here, the rest of the country just doesn't matter. How could it? Why bother to know about it? We sat at Old Man's near San Onofre after our session, talking to the owner of an advertising firm based in Monterey. He picked us out as tourists from my wicked sunburn almost immediately. We told him we were from Michigan, that we came out here for a surf trip and to visit Paul's family. He talked about Michigan like it was Afghanistan. Can you surf there? Does it get really cold? What does it look like? Does the Yeti, in fact, call mournfully from the icy Michigan hilltops during the frigid twilight?

But, really, how can you blame them? Since I've set foot on this arid low desert, I've found myself slipping away, coerced into a state of semi-coma by the reggae they play endlessly on every rock radio station in this place. This area encompasses every type of microclimate you can imagine within a few hours -- from desert to still-snow-capped peak. You have Ferraris parked next to ratted-out surf wagons. You can sit on your board and just relax as the sea rolls into the land, or grind from day to night to buy the things that Southern California (at least LA and Orange County) seems to value so much: homes, cars, boats, trophy wives. My point is, you can do anything here. Whatever it is that you want, SoCal can facilitate it, if you're willing to give up something of equal value -- your time, your money, your morals.

This is the Faustian bargain that makes Southern California so appealing and simultaneously repulsive to those of us from areas with a culture that touts set values arising from years of indoctrination by family, religion, climate, culture. The beauty and danger of this place is that it can be anything -- anything -- you want it to be. A materialistic Gommorah, a hippie commune, a religious sect, a family paradise, a tourist wasteland, an environment to expolit, a Shangrai-La to save.

As for us, Paul and I are living our Southern California -- our interpretation, that is -- for this short week. Our SoCal is a place free of work, the evocative smells of neoprene and surf wax filling the cabin of our rented Jeep, our eyes closed, running the length of the Pacific Coast Highway as it winds through beach towns that all blend together after a while, looking at at the waves breaking to our right, the azure Pacific foaming and spitting and all the while calling us, begging us to put our feet in, take our boards down, live for the present.

We listen.

Since I spend most of my time thinking about traveling and figuring out costs, etc., I suppose someone other than me might find them useful.  This first trip is a quick surf trip to Kill Devil HIlls, NC from Grand Rapids, MI.  Use the link to Gasbuddy to customize it for your place of residence.

Note: This trip is cheap as chips for residents of the Eastern Midwest and Eastern states.  If you are west of Chicago or your drive is over 16 hours, this trip is not quite so cheap.  Oh my, no.

Total Cost: $594.64
Gas: $369.64 (via GasBuddy)
Camping: $80 for 4 nights (Joe & Kay's Campground)
Food: $100 (depends on number of travelers)
Surf supplies: $30 (wax)
Firewood: $15

The Destination: Kill Devil HIlls, Outer Banks, North Carolina
From MagicSeaweed: "Famed for the Outer Banks, this 300 mile east-facing coastline is almost entirely ringed by these low-level sandy islands. Possibly the best surf on the East Coast and certainly capable of holding excellent waves, the banks jut out into the sea making the most of all available swell. Autumn's hurricane season produces the most prolific surf and winter to spring's north-easterly storms regularly track swell down from the Atlantic. Summer brings typically sloppy surf."

Magic Seaweed has a lot of rad photos of the surf in Kill Devil HIlls, so check them out.

The Plan
This is the classic surf trip -- 1 car, a few friends, a couple of cases of cheap beer and a looming coastline.  It's likely gonna be made by a few working stiffs, so it needs to abut a weekend.  The goal is to get in as much surfing as possible in 5 days, while missing the minimal amount of work.  If you can't get a couple of days off... well, consider self-employment or possibly vagrancy.

The trip should be taken in fall or spring (ideally before mid-April), when the surf is best but the water temps still warm, or relatively warm if heading out in spring.  Keep checking the surf report, and try not to freak out if it goes flat for a few.

Itinerary
There isn't much of an itinerary for this trip, but with surf spots in Kill Devil Hills, Rodanthe (35 mi), Nag's Head (6 mi), Kitty Hawk (4mi) and pretty much anywhere the ocean meets the land (which is everywhere in the OBX) you can just cruise and see what's happening at the various spots.

Basically:

• 4AM Thursday -- Leave
• 10PM Thursday -- Arrive and set up (it'll be dark, know your tent inside and out)
• 6AM Friday - 9PM Sunday -- Surf, fish, drink the now lukewarm beer you brought
• 4AM Monday -- Drive home
• 10PM Monday -- Arrive home
• 7AM Tuesday -- Wake up for work.  Curse both god and man.

What to Pack

• Wetsuit (4/3 for spring, 3/2 for fall)
• Board Shorts
• Rash guards
• Appropriate temp wax
• Boards
• Portable DVD Player (it's a loooong drive)
• Surf porn and other movies (seriously, a really long drive)
• A couple of books
• Food
• Cooler (at least try to keep the beer cold)
• Clothes for when you're not in a wetsuit (hopefully not all that often)
• Fishing gear for when the surf inevitably doesn't show

Wait, What?
You heard me -- fishing gear.  Or hiking gear.  Or lots of good books.  The one pure, unadulterated rule of the surf trip is that you will always miss the surf.  Always.  Just count on it and bring something else to do for when it happens so that you don't get so bored that you just sit and wax the topsheet right off your board as you vainly watch the sea.  (Don't believe me? Go watch The Endless Summer again.)  Plus, the fishing is stellar in the Outer Banks, and you'll be completely elated if you actually catch something edible that you can have instead of PB sandwiches one night.

Legal Nonsense: I'm not responsible if you use this info and die or are maimed, whether by a carnivorous fish or anything else for that matter.  If you try to sue me I will be very upset.  Let's not, shall we?

Starting to plan for spring and summer to get away from GR (and do some cool stuff in and around town) -- here's what we're looking at:

5-day Portland Trip-- Since leaving Portland, one the biggest bummers was not being able to get a climbing permit to head up St. Helens in summer '09.  We're looking at heading back to conquer that temptress and bask in the summer goodness that is all things Portland in the summertime.  There may even be a few spare minutes for surfing in the Pacific...

 

5-Day Outer Banks Whirlwind Surf Tour -- Stoked to surf the Great Lakes this spring, but still craving some real ocean waves for the first time (that's right, I've never been surfing in the ocean).  This cheap-as-chips trip would be comprised of myself and a buddy or two in a car, blasting the 15.5 hours to the Outer Banks of North Carolina before May, tenting in a state park or roadside RV park, and spending every minute that we're not asleep in the water or just enjoying the mild climate.  Looking forward to conquering my fear of giant carnivorous fish as well.

Chicago/Milwaukee Weekends -- It's no secret that if I would live anywhere in the Midwest other than GR, it would be in Milwaukee.  There's bound to be a lot of these little weekend jaunts to see Chi and MKE family and spend a little time basking in the glow of these Great Lakes gems.  Milwaukee in the summer is an extra-special treat, with great breweries, sidewalk bistros and excellent lakefront strolling.  Plus, once that wind picks up in early fall -- Milwaukee-area surfing.  I hear Sheboygen is one of the best spots on the lakes.

Mackinac Island and Surrounds -- The once-yearly pilgrimage with the in-laws to one of my favorite places on earth.  Mackinac is perfect for me because the distinct absence of cars, the Fiji-esqe aquamarine-colored water on the State Park side, and the lack of anything to do outside of riding the circumference of the island over and over and over and reading on the beautiful lawn at the Mission Hotel (watch out for the goose poo).  Plus, we get to walk the Mighty Mac bridge, which we've done for the past 5 years.  Labor Day is the only time pedestrians are allowed on it, and the view from 200 feet up in the middle of the span is incredible.

Maybe I'll surprise you and just sweep you out of town in a mad rush one of these weekends, leaving the cupboards open and pots on the stove and the clothes in the dryer, hurrying from here to there, wherever there is, maybe not knowing where there is. 

And maybe we could just drive; to Chicago, decide to keep going.  Hit Milwaukee and not even stop -- moving past that city on our way to that highway that cuts straight across the northern US.  Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana -- stopping in Missoula to watch the Clark Fork flowing ice around Jacob's Island -- continuing west, west, past Portland until the Pacific Coast highway is in view.  101 South, south until we've gone through all the playlists over and over and over, until we start to see nothing for miles.  Cannon, Newport, Manzanitas, Gold Coast, Crescent City, Redding, Prairie Creek, Fort Bragg.  Cities on the coast of California so shrouded in fog that the only way you know you're still on track is the ocean crashing on the rocks somewhere to your right.  All the road salt and dust accumulated from the drive through the north washed away and replaced by that slick film of salty air that comes in the vents and clouds the windshield so I have to rub it away with hands covered in dust left by shitty snacks from gas stations with drawings of Bigfoot walking through the redwoods on their windows.

South still, south across the Bay, the one outside The City (those humble folks watching us pass).  South towards Los Angeles, not even going there, just driving now, driving like breathing, like waking -- our consciousness coming to us in fits, and leaving as we watch traffic lines slide past us, back into sleep again.  Palm trees line the highways, so do orange and lemon and avacado.  Through Carmel-by-the-Sea, Pebble Beach, Redondo; these place names legendary, like the people who call them home (or second, third home).  Following the curve of the continent, the winding tarmac that mimics the line that the sea traces as it works its way back to reclaim the territory it lost some eons ago.

Finally San Diego, flirting with the border, these tan people gaping at our pale midwestern faces, listening to our hard a's and lowing o's, us laughing as they ask us yet again if we're from Minnesota, Canada, Alaska.  We can watch the Federalis interview spoiled kids from Southern California as they try to cross into Tijuana for a night of clubbing, drinking, fucking -- the terminus of the land we're from taunting us, because of course we forgot our passports back in Michigan, sitting on the kitchen counter, below those open cupboards and next to those dirty pots.  And the only thing to do now is head east, east through the high desert, the low desert, the deep south.  Then back, finally, snow overtaking us somewhere on the banks of the Mississippi, repeating that stupid sing-song chant (em-eye-ess-ess-eye-ess-ess-eye-pee-pee-eye!) all the way up, following the muddy, sluggish torrent north until we break east and find ourselves in that familiar Chicago gridlock again.

Finally, tired, tired, into the driveway -- collapsing into the driveway -- that car refusing to go another inch, issuing steam and fluids from our lack of care on our mad dash, stumbling into the kitchen, laughing at the state of things, that state that can be fixed tomorrow when our responsibilites overtake us, fill us, consume us; but knowing that just for this short time we did that thing that silly high school kids see themselves doing the summer of senior year: that wild, stupid, reckless line through the country, that line that's like one long run-on sentence -- all commas and em-dashes and semicolons and misused articles that reads like talking in a breathless voice when the thoughts are coming too fast for words to keep pace, our thoughts still flying west and south, west and south, west and south across the plains, to the coast.

Liz and I are riding the 30 miles of the Rapid Wheelmen's '09 Colorburst Tour, Saturday October 10.  Its route heads through Fallasburg Park in Lowell, and it promises to be a really beautiful ride (if these leaves start changing at some point).  The ride was started in memory of a Rapid Wheelman friend killed by a drunk driver.  As a result, part of the proceeds go to MADD.  If you're interested, check out the official website.

In other news, Paul and I spend the better part of the day today searching for surf along West Michigan's south coast.  After finding New Buffalo looking like a washing machine, we went as far south as Michigan City, IN, then back up north to South Haven.  On the south side of the South Haven pier we found pretty good waves, some head high at the outer sand bar.  I got chewed pretty good, and I'm still working on getting my big nine-footer past the constantly and randomly breaking Michigan waves.  Paul had some good rides, and we both had a ton of fun.  Eventually reality called and we headed back to GR to face our respective buzzkills.

While surfing in South Haven, we randomly ended up in a the photo of a dude from Ann Arbor, who posted it on the Third Coast Surf Shop forum.  Not exactly an action shot, as you can see, so it may be best to imagine me shredding as seen below in the slightly retouched image under it.

So the swell forecast for Grand Haven on Monday, Sept. 28 is calling for 13.5 ft waves.  Heading out in the morning with Paul at 9A.  The swell forecast around here changes so rapidly that you can't always count on the previous night's forecast to remain true while you sleep -- since the waves are created by very sneaky winds close in to shore -- but even if this dials down a bit, it should be awesome.  I'll be honest -- I'm not even sure that I'll get in the water, as waves that big are definitely out of my league, but just to go and watch will be an experience.  I'm bringing my board just in case the forecast is closer to the 8 ft swells called for at surfgrandhaven.com.

See the MagicSeaWeed forecast here -- it's updated regularly as conditions shift, so the number might not be exactly what I've put here, but with luck it'll still be big tomorrow morning when we get on the road.  You can also check out the surfgrandhaven.com webcam, and see the swells (whether monster or not) from the comfort of your desk.

 

I am officially old.  I've heard that your body begins making its inglorious slide down to middle age at 26 -- being less able to burn fat and build muscle and endurance -- but now this is more than just random tidbit of information.  These things I know to be true:

1. I cycled 26 miles on Saturday
2. I surfed for about 4 hours Sunday
3. I now feel as though someone has been beating me about the legs and hips with an aluminum bat

If this is to continue, I'm not sure what I'm going to do.  Work out more? Build as much muscle as my body can? Burn some fat? Train for stamina? ...Yeah... I'm thinking get a walker and learn to play Bridge.

Alright, so let's get one thing out of the way first: people do surf the great lakes. And yes, there are times when it can be good, even great.  Go watch Vince Deur's excellent surf flick Unsalted if you don't believe me.  There are some days that are downright excellent.  On the minus side, those days are in usually January, in a region known for subzero temperatures and pretty decent snowboarding. 

Now, that's not to say that there aren't good waves to be had before one has to don the 7 millimeter neoprene fullsuit, but as a rule, the frigid months, where Lake Michigan unleashes her fury in the form of massive wind-blown swells on the shoreline, is the best time to be surfing here.

In truth, I haven't been surfing for very long.  When I lived in Oregon, I would drive out to Short Sands and Indian Beach to watch the guys surfing there, braving the consistent 45-degree water and numerous Great White sharks to catch what -- by many people's standards -- are lackluster waves.  But these guys' (and womens') spirits are not dampened by the cold, nor the slop, nor the apex predators swimming omniously under the onyx water.  They just want to surf, and if that means doing it where they are, well then dammit, that's what they're going to do.

Inspired by these hearty souls, and headed back for the midwest, I made the resolution to do the same.  I was going to buy a board and work the Lake for all it was worth.  This, thus far, has not turned out to be very much.  Going with Paul, a friend (and damn good rider) originally from LA, we've ridden twice in 4 to 6 foot, somewhat choppy conditions for a few hours a session. 

It's been fun.  No, scratch that -- it's been awesome. 

I'm not sure I've ever done anything that I've liked more right off the bat.  It's hard, and sometimes painful and always an awesome workout.  I leave the lake with a feeling of satisfaction and contentment that lasts for days.  In short, I am hooked.

That said, a comment (strategically buried, of course) on SinkTheBoats blog betrays my true feelings, and I'll reprint it here, for your enjoyment:

Okay, honesty time: a) surfing is the most awesome thing in history, including dinosaurs and b) the lake has a lack of tubulation (in both a literal and figurative sense) and I want to move to the Ocean real bad, salt and sharks be damned.

I have been shamed.