In his seminal surf memoir Barbarian Days, William Finnegan calls Will Rogers State Beach “not a proper surf spot.” Chris and I assess its conditions from the lip of the parking lot, blissfully oblivious to what, exactly, makes a surf spot “proper” or “improper.” It’s an overcast Monday morning, the wind is low, a typical five degrees cooler than my side of L.A. We are flanked by mountains to the north and the Santa Monica Pier, cloaked in fog, to the south. Modest, crumbly waves peel off the break. Monday mornings mean busy freeways and empty lineups. A smattering of surfers bob just beyond the whitewater, greedy for mediocre waves.
“Oh, yeah!” says Chris, earnest as ever. We’re two lifelong city kids and L.A. transplants who met in a writers’ group about five years back. “These conditions are perfect.” In fact, the forecasting service Surfline calls them, “poor to fair.”
I, a poor-to-fair surfer, agree with Chris. But the conditions don’t actually matter. I’m not really here to surf. On this particular morning, my Google Calendar is blanketed in one large, blue block:…
