Surfing on Christmas

When I was a gremmie, in the early 1960s, most people near the coast came from functional and traditional families. Christmas day was generally split between two American deities: Santa Claus and Baby Jesus. 

Depending on your family, you either played with the gifts brought by Santa or attended Church first. We split the difference by attending midnight mass and getting up early to see what the North Pole blew in. 

By then we felt too mature to believe in either, and it only later occurred to me that my adolescent atheism was partially due to finding out that my parents had lied (too strong a word?) about Santa and the Easter Bunny and probably also fibbed about the being set up in a manger, and later a cross, near them.

Like many people we knew, Christmas had become a sort of secular holy day, and we observed it with the rest of the family. That was before surfing jackhammered tradition.

The year was 1965, and I had only recently achieved a California driver’s license. The weather patterns that year were similar to this year’s and Christmas day broke sunny and cold. 

We could see by a neighbor’s American flag that the winds were offshore, and we had to surf that day. 

Nervously, I asked Dad to borrow the station wagon. He agreed, gave me the keys and requested we be back for dinner and not track any sand into the house. 

We had been to Palos Verdes before but had little idea where the surf spots were. 

After driving through some of the West Coast’s most exclusive neighborhoods, we came upon a beautiful cove that we later learned went by the names Bluff Cove, Paddleboard Cove and Palos Verdes Cove.

The surf there was small, clean and slow (think Terra Mar), and perfect for us and our heavy longboards. The best part was that there was nobody out.

A steep path led to a rocky shoreline and an easy paddle out into waves shared by my brother, Dave, and me. We rode for hours in this glassy little paradise visited only by seagulls, sea lions and leopard sharks. 

Having never seen leopard sharks before we didn’t realize they were toothless and could not hurt us even if they wanted to. 

We were home in time for dinner, washed the sand from our feet and, because we had surfed, were less agitated than we had been in Christmases past. 

Inexpensive gifts had been exchanged and, wearing my new watch, I kept hoping someone would ask me the time, which they never did.

For my brother and me, this led to a tradition of surfing on Christmas Day. No matter what the conditions: big, small, offshore or onshore, we were going surfing on Dec. 25. Having found my own faith years ago, Christmas Day now means a great deal to me. 

I love sharing it with friends and family, a pleasure enhanced after riding a few waves with someone close to me (this year, I hope to break my 13-year-old grandson, Lucas, into the tradition). 

Borrowing from Surfer Magazine circa 1970, I share this greeting with you, dear reader. Here’s wishing you a glassy Christmas and an offshore New Year.