8/5–6 — Martin’s Beach (The Cave)
For weeks we have planned to do what we did at Martin’s Beach this weekend. We packed up the truck and drove down the One through the fog. We passed Montara, The Jetty, Half Moon bay, and pulled off the road at an unassuming patch of dirt next to a thin, gated road. We suited up and walked don’t the quiet road to Martin’s Beach. The peacocks at the top of the hill were making human-like noises, the air was thick with perfect temperature fog. At the turn in the road we could see that the south break at Martin’s Beach was cradling the swell just right, and was arguably the only spot within 10 miles with truly quality surf.
The water surface was smooth, no waves breaking. Then, lifting slowly, silently, the a hill of water rises, rises, and then the lip forms. Thin, it extends itself still silently, looking down at itself. The wave curls and molds into white oblivion as it peels horizontally. The water was a smooth blue.
I paddled out far. I sat there, water feeling equal to air. Suspended. A head-high outside set appeared, I paddled out, I turned. I dropped in steeply into the right, carving a smooth bottom turn and came up to the top of the lip, crouched, and sped in a straight line as the lip formed continuously to my right. I held my line with some small turns. At the end of the shoulder was Ben, floating in the water with his wave positioned just right. As the wave shoulder died I jumped from my board to his, and quickly fell into cold, quiet water.
I had several amazing waves at the clearly defined peak, dropping in and speeding left or right. A few times I dropped late and got carried over the shelf and into the kelp.
The fog was coming in thicker and thicker, enveloping Martin’s Beach in a dream layer. We walked to the very north side of the beach and packed a very large, thick plastic bag with wood. we then traversed the rock shelf at the base of the north point, and jumped into the water.
There it was. The large cave you can only get to by swimming. A magical, hidden cathedral. We swam our wood into the cave, laid it out, and started a fire. Little by little it grew, eating slowly at the wood. Slowly it grew to light up some of the cave walls. We stayed there for a long time, took pictures, stoked the fire, and let it sink in.
It got dark, and in the dark we swam back to the shelf after each taking a flaming log and dropping it in the ocean. A lone seal was sitting on the shelf, and slipped into the water at our appearance. On the shelf is a curious, large hole that doesn’t leak into the ocean. It fills in at high tide and is about neck-deep, and easily fits 3 people. We got in and talked, and talked. It got darker and darker, the lights of the cottages above Martin’s Beach lit up one by one, and we stayed there, hidden.
We walked back in the dark, in the fog. It was beautiful. We changed in the dirt.
It was a special moment, one of the things I want to bottle up and carry with me. A moment I want to keep preserved, in all of it’s immersive beauty. The green on the hills, the blue water, the dark, slick kelp, the hidden cave, the shells, the sand, the fog pressing deeply, the temperature of the air and the water as I dove into it, the seals watching us, the whales blowing spray and roaring out of the water, the boat lights at night. All of it.
We came back the next day, we couldn’t help ourselves. The south rock break was picking up the same swell and it was just Chas and me in the water. Two bobbing black figures in the expanse of blue and fog, our two friends on the shore.
