Ask any Rocky Point local and they’ll tell you the ocean has a fickle personality. While the tide movements are as predictable as politicians with bad toupees, the ocean changes its attitude more often than a teenaged boy. There are winter storms with towering surf and winds that sandblast your ankles. And there are summers days with breezes that can barely raise a ripple. A few weeks ago, the Sea of Cortez was flatter than my wallet before Social Security Day. I was painstakingly sweeping Sandy Beach with my metal detector, looking for Rolexes and diamond rings dropped by rich folks. Sadly, I was not having much luck. I walked up to a blond-haired twenty-something kid who was standing knee-deep in the water. He was carrying a surf board.
CAP’N GREG: Is there a problem?
KID: Yeh. No waves. Who ever heard of an ocean with no waves?
CAP’N GREG: Happens here all the time. This your first visit?
KID: Yeh. I been out on dawn patrol, amped to carve a bomb, but all I get is ankle busters. Mush. Total lull. What gives?
CAP’N GREG: Should I be able to understand you?
KID: I’m sorry. It’s So-cal surf lingo.
CAP’N GREG: Thanks, dude. Now I’m tuned.
KID: What’s a grey belly like you doing out here?
CAP’N GREG: Not me. Not even a kook. Tried to body surf once. Ate a pound of reef.
KID: You got hodad written all over you.
CAP’N GREG: I’m all that.
KID: So, is flat the normal in Rocky Point?
CAP’N GREG: Can’t tell. Next week could be a firing line of heavies.
KID: This beach?
CAP’N GREG: The mix would leave you grubbing more than going off. Dirty lickings. Everyone clucked. A wipeout wonderland. Dig?
KID: Yeh. I dig. But today?
CAP’N GREG: Great for goat boaters, grommets, barneys and boogers.
KID: Yeh, man. Anti-tubular. So what’s the plan?
CAP’N GREG: See that hotel down the beach?
KID: Yeh. I’m on it.
CAP’N GREG: Playa Bonita. They have a bar. Let’s go hang loose until surf’s up.
KID: I could get stoked about that.
CAP’N GREG: Gnarly, man.