Hit the road, Jacks!
A trip through Northern California inspired by the life and work of two great Jacks: Kerouac and O’Neill. From one of the most iconic spots in the surfing world to the gayest street on the planet, Maria Ana Ventura has a story or two to tell.
—
In On The Road, Jack Kerouac, the man who celebrated the beat generation, Benzedrine (an amphetamine mix) and who documented one of the most remarkable journeys made in the USA, wrote: “the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars”. Jack O´Neill is one of those beings. I’ll come back to Kerouac a little later.
O’Neill is about 80 years old. He’s got the face of a dog, not the guard type but rather the sea-type. And, to be honest, that’s exactly what he is: an old salty sea dog! In the mid-20th century, when surfing was still a pastime ruled by the wiles of the seasons and confined to tropical latitudes, Jack O’Neill was one of the few brave souls to endure the freezing waters of Northern California in the winter. At that time, those mad enough to do so surfed wearing woollen shirts or warmed themselves by a fire on the beach, between waves. O’Neill was responsible for the turnaround that today allows us to see surfers in the sea alongside penguins in the Antarctic, in the highlands of Scotland, remotest Tasmania and even on Vancouver Island in Canada. Blame it all on Jack, the visionary, the non-conformist, the madman who invented the wetsuit, or the surfer’s second skin. This was just the start of it all.
The Holy Trinity of Santa Cruz
I’m in Santa Cruz, in California; the place where Jack decided to settle and pursue his dreams. It was here that he set up the HQ of the brand that bears his name in the four corners of the globe and which was created in a San Francisco garage. I’ve come to see the O’Neill Cold Water Classic Santa Cruz: one of the three stages of a series of events that are part of the qualifying heats of the ASP (Association of Surfing Professionals), the surfing equivalent of FIFA. The reputation of the event precedes it. Steamer Lane to its friends (which means surfers) or Lighthouse Point (for mere mortals) is the perfect wave that crashes in front of the lighthouse, north-east of Monterey Bay. It was on this iconic spot of world surfing that Jack ruined his left eye, which means that he has to wear a pirate’s patch for the rest of his life.
At Lighthouse Point, the Hawaiian John John Florence wears competition Lycra®, does stretching exercises, waxes his board and adjusts his leash, the thing that attaches the board to the surfer’s foot and which was invented by Pat O’Neill, one of Jack’s six children. Around him there are the curious, aficionados and people who have only come here “to see what’s new”. Old couples out for their morning stroll, grown men who have been surfing since they were toddlers, fit women and muscle-bound guys who watch the waves over their shoulder while they jog. There are Rastafarian skaters, others who look like they’ve overdone the acid and the marijuana, wearing batik shirts and couples with vintage bicycles to match.
The non-competition waves are crowded. There are men, women, blonds, brunettes, nursery school children and even dogs. There are also those who prefer fishing and kayaks. On the horizon is the O’Neill catamaran, where primary school kids embark on a maritime odyssey to study at close quarters the flora and fauna of the Monterey bay, the habitat of elephant seals, humpback whales and otters which swim, splash and roar. I can’t see them, but I know there are white sharks not too far away. Thankfully, they let me surf in peace in the Pacific, as calm today as it was 500 years ago, when my fellow countryman Fernão de Magalhães (Magellan) crossed and baptised it.
A part of my days is spent at the competition taking place in Steamer, or Waddel Creek, depending on the sea and the waves. The South African sensation Jordy Smith, the Brazilians Miguel Pupo and Willian Cardoso and the flying Australian Josh Kerr are on form, as is the local lad, Nat Young. Much to the surprise of many, my friend and idol, the Portuguese surfer Tiago “Saca” Pires, slipped through heat after heat and joined Miguel Pupo in the final. So the final heat of the championship was contested in two melodic variations of my language: the Portuguese of fado and the Portuguese of samba. Samba came out top…
In my spare time I scour every square inch of this libertarian surf city that follows no fashions, unlike its distant cousins in Southern California (yes, I’m talking about L.A, O.C. and similar such places). Santa Cruz has always been ahead of its time. In the 1970s, a local newspaper published a guide for homemade artificial insemination for the lesbian community of this town that, for many years, had a mayor that was neither fish nor fowl; not a republican nor a democrat, but a socialist. Modern in some things and conservative in others. Santa Cruz is also classic and its mythical boardwalk, which was built in 1907, is proof of just that. Close by is another icon, the coolest amusement park I’ve ever seen. It’s the oldest one in the American west and it’s closed for the season, but it is so glamorous that I close my eyes and I can sense the buzz of the fair on a summer’s day; kids asking for another ride on the rollercoaster, the carrousel music, the smell of candy floss and toffee apples.
I pinch myself and return to the real world. Then I shake a leg with Wonder Woman at an improvised salsa lesson on the sand and dine on a burrito that looks more like an elephant. I feel as stuffed as a turkey at Christmas! I knew I should have chosen the Maine lobster… So, I have no other option than to ride the mechanical bull again and enjoy the madness of downtown nightlife in the company of the Cookie Monster, Pea-Man, Captain America and the Mario Brothers. No, I didn’t drop any acid: it’s Halloween.
If you’re going to San Francisco
The pumpkin farms, roadside shops selling home-made jams and the parks covered with sequoias and pines have all been left behind. Half Moon Bay too. It was there that I stopped off to have lunch and take a look at the Mavericks, the place where one of the heaviest waves in the world breaks. After crossing off this personal “to do”, I follow Highway 1, which will take me to Frisco. I pass through tunnels that traverse gorges by the sea and spruce and orderly hamlets that get bigger and closer together as I get closer to the “city”.
San Franciscans are a proud lot; full stop. They’re proud because they’re dynamic and uninhibited. They’re proud because they live in a place that, the occasional earth tremor aside, is probably the best address in the United States. San Francisco doesn’t fit on these pages. However, it can’t be ignored. It would be unfair to the other Jack of this trip: Kerouac.
I fall hard for San Fran, where parrots and rainbow flags fly and where there are streets and alleys rechristened with the great names of American literature. Kerouac is one of them. I go to Fisherman´s Wharf, up and down the dizzy heights of its hills, I pose for posterity next to the Golden Gate and sit on the edge of the Bay and stare at Alcatraz through a telescope. At night, I visit Castro Street (one of the gayest streets on the planet), sure that much remained unseen and undone. I think about this the next day, when I’ve got my feet in the sand of Ocean Beach, the place where O’Neill surfed so many times. He and Kerouac are contemporaries, but I don’t know if they ever met. I suspect they did, because O’Neill subscribes to what Kerouac once wrote: “Life must be rich and full of loving – it’s no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.”
Text and photos by Maria Ana Ventura
—
