Eternal Optimists : Three surfers let enthusiasm be their guide as they embark on an ‘Endless Summer’ quest on the county’s coast.

We are standing at the ocean’s edge, the three of us, in a gray post-dawn. The smell of salt hangs in the air. A spackle of sleep clings to my eyes.

Dave’s eyes are open wide, head jerking about like a radar antenna. He is scanning the horizon for waves, of which there are none. Perhaps this is a bit harsh. Occasionally a small wave does lap the ocean’s mirror surface. This causes Dave to react as if he’s just been goosed.

“Look, look,” he says, finger pointing in the direction of a barely discernible hummock. “Right there. It’s a little wave, but it’s definitely ridable.”

Dave’s head swivels about and speaks to me.

“It’s better than yesterday, don’t you think?”

Blind optimism is a critical component of surfing.

Dave is 17 and has been surfing for two years. I am 35 and have been surfing for as long as Dave has been alive. I have walked away from dozens of mornings like this. Still, Dave’s enthusiasm is contagious. Besides, we are on a quest, and quests, at least worthy ones, aren’t easily stymied. Ours is to search the Ventura County coastline for the perfect wave, and discover whatever other lessons that search might bring. Sure the surf here at Surfer’s Point this morning is lousy. But if it was perfect, our quest would be over.

Dave looks at me with moon eyes.

“Can we surf here for half an hour?” he asks.

GLOBAL SEARCH

Surfers had no doubt hunted for waves before, but it was Bruce Brown who first introduced the concept to the masses nearly 30 years ago in his movie classic “Endless Summer.” In that film, surfers Robert August and Mike Hynson journeyed about the globe, bumbling upon adventure and numbingly perfect surf. When the film’s last frame flicked from the screen, surfers stumbled from the theater possessed. A world of waves, a lifestyle, beckoned.

Some hardy souls even followed Brown’s siren call, risking airline food, amoebic dysentery and Napoleonic customs officials to surf remote waves in places like Indonesia, South Africa and Fiji.

Relaying the thrill of Brown’s original film to Dave and his friend Gavin, also 17, might have been difficult had Brown not recently released his long-awaited sequel, “Endless Summer II.” In the new movie, surfers Robert (Wingnut) Weaver and Pat O’Connell retrace the global wanderings of Brown’s original adventurers, and throw in some interesting forays of their own.

As with the original, the film’s effect on a surfer is nothing short of combustible, akin, say, to having Cindy Crawford model spandex at a fraternity meeting. Dave and Gavin had already seen the movie when I proposed an “Endless Summer” adventure in Ventura County.

When I showed up at their house at 5:30 in the morning, they were in the car, waiting. We had cause for excitement. California is rife with prime surf spots, and Ventura County is no exception. From Rincon Point at the county’s northern end to County Line at the southern border, the coastline is pummeled with good waves. I know this because I have surfed most of them. Plus, I called Bruce Brown and asked.

When I spoke to Brown, he allowed that he currently does virtually all his surfing near his Santa Barbara ranch. But he was still familiar with other California surf.

“It’s pretty funny,” Brown told me. “We’d be traveling, shooting a movie, and we’d come home and the surf would be better here.”

We also discussed some of the philosophy behind surfing. I asked Brown what surfing would be like if the waves were perfect all the time, if, in essence, there was no need for the hunt.

“It probably wouldn’t be much fun,” said Brown. “The joy comes when you check a place five days in a row and it’s lousy, and then you show up on the sixth day and all of the sudden it’s great. It’s like climbing a mountain. If Everest was in everybody’s back yard, it wouldn’t be that big a deal.”

Yet surfers, Brown included, ardently pursue this ideal.

“True,” said Brown, pausing to chew on the thought. “I suppose all of us are always looking for the utopian place.”

Of course there is no utopia. Even in California, the surf isn’t perfect all the time. Here at Surfer’s Point in Ventura, Dave, Gavin and I are learning this firsthand. We sit in the water, staring at a gray skyline. Occasionally a few waves roll through, distinguished from the surrounding ocean as slight wrinkles on an otherwise flush carpet.

Several long boarders notch some decent rides--their big boards allowing them to catch and ride even the most infinitesimal of waves--but we are riding boards far too short for such small conditions. Recently I have begun to consider riding a long board, though I doubt Dave and Gavin share my interest. Most 17-year-olds view long boards in the same light as the Beatles, trailer homes and teeth that rest by the bedside.

“Definite long boarding,” proclaims Dave when we exited the water after an hour of sorry surf.

“Small and slow,” says Gavin.

GAUGING THE WAVES

Good surf is a fickle combination of many factors. There must be waves, of course. But tide and wind also play an important role. So do the seasons and the direction of the swell--storms send waves from different directions; how a beach is positioned determines whether it will catch waves head on, receive a glancing blow or get nothing at all. Rincon Point for instance, which arguably has some of the best waves in the world, breaks best during winter north swells at mid-tide, and a slight offshore wind can add nice spice to the picture.

Such intangibles lead to no small amount of conjecture on the part of the surfer. Thus you might find two salty fellows, monosyllabic under most circumstances, suddenly discoursing with the verbal panache of McNeil-Lehrer.

Surfer No. 1: “Dude.”

Surfer No. 2: “Eh?”

Surfer No. 1: “There’s a storm off the Aleutians, north swell’s supposed to hit tomorrow morning. It rained last night, so there’s a chance of a northeast wind. Could be offshore and hollow.”

Surfer No. 2: “Hmmmmm. Tide’s low at four in the morning and it’s coming up fast, negative 0.6 at 7 a.m., then peaking out at four feet around 10. Things could mush out late. The sooner we’re in the water, the better off we’ll be.”

Like most surfers, Dave puts his stock in something far more reliable, namely a rumor he heard from someone.

“There’s supposed to be something, at least a two-foot swell on the way,” he says as we drive north up the old Pacific Coast Highway.

If so, it is late pulling into the gate. Solimar Reef is flat. Ditto for Pitas Point, Hobson State Park, Oil Piers and La Conchita Point. We swing back onto the 101 and two minutes later take the Bates Road turnoff. This is Rincon Point, the queen of the California coast. Rumor has it that the longest recorded tube ride took place here: A surfer named Mickey Munoz purportedly tucked inside a wave for 20 seconds and emerged with his hair dry.

The tube ride being an adrenal thrill matched only by illicit pharmaceuticals and honeymoons, Rincon is a popular place. Back when Brown was fussing with his first “Endless Summer,” a chosen few surfers sampled Rincon’s flawlessly peeling waves, sliding soulfully across sparkling walls that could unreel for as long as half a mile.

The wave still exists, only these days it’s hard to see because of the coating of surfers smothering the water. Surfing Rincon on a good day is a bit like wandering about the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, only the floor of the exchange is a great deal chummier.

Today the parking lot is empty. This means one of two things. The surf is abominable or we arrived moments after a nuclear attack.

It’s so bad that neither Dave nor Gavin even consider going out.

We drive south again, back to Emma Wood State Beach. Though you wouldn’t know it most of the time, Emma Wood is home to one of California’s best big-wave surf spots. It’s called Ventura Overhead, and it reputedly serves up waves as big as 20 feet, horribly powerful things that test the skills of the expert and the bladder control of the not-so-proficient.

Because the wave breaks on a shallow reef a half-mile out to sea, gauging the size from shore can be difficult. Several years back, some friends and I, peering out on a diamond bright December day, estimated a wave to be eight feet. Out in the water it was decidedly bigger. One friend fractured a rib; I escaped with a near drowning.

Today we aren’t looking out to sea. We are looking just off the sandy beach.

“Yeah,” says Dave. “This looks like fun. The right peak looks good.”

I strain to see where Dave is pointing. It appears to be some 20 yards north of where two elderly men stand in waist-deep water.

In my mind there are two scenes in “Endless Summer II” that bottle the essence of surfing. One occurs when Wingnut and O’Connell, escorted by Australian surfing legend Nat Young, head for one of Young’s favorite spots. They drive along 30 miles of desolate beach, then turn right and head out another eight miles on a protruding sand spit to find . . . nothing. So they go surfing anyhow, O’Connell bellying in on his stomach on a wave that can’t be bigger than six inches, fists pumping overhead in unrestrained glee.

I look back to where Dave is pointing. Sure enough, a two-foot wave rolls in, peeling off quickly in knee-deep water, prompting Dave and Gavin to change into their wet suits faster than runway models. We grab waves for an hour, enjoying ourselves despite the copious amounts of sand drilled up our noses. Our waves are four times the size of the ones at Nat Young’s secret spot.

By 9:30 a.m. we are driving south again, chased by the specter of wind, already starting to puff lightly onshore, picking absently at the ocean’s smooth surface. For the surfer the wind can be a boon or a curse. Wind blowing off the land can sculpt waves into perfect canvasses. Wind blowing off the ocean has the opposite effect: Imagine someone grooming your favorite ski slope with a grenade launcher.

We arrive at the Santa Clara River mouth to find the wind blowing steadily onshore. Still, the waves appear to be good, another two feet larger. Dave hails a surfer who had just exited the water.

“Anything out there?”

This is a standard surfing ritual in which surfers with dry hair consult surfers with wet hair as to conditions easily viewed from where each party stands.

“It’s definitely worth going out,” says our oracle. “A south swell’s just beginning to show. It’ll probably be real good tomorrow.” This is another surfing standard. In surfing the two best days are yesterday and tomorrow, making it difficult to get good surf unless you have access to a time machine.

We hike down the beach and paddle out near the mouth of the Santa Clara River. The waves are three to four feet. For the first time, the sun pokes through the curtain of gray. Pelicans grouped on the beach strut about like a convention of maitre d’s. I catch several nice waves in a row, one or two as high as my head. Several times I am also pitched flat on my face. Still, I take both as promising signs. The surf is picking up, our day exhibiting a promising trend.

I watch Dave and Gavin. They grab wave after wave. Occasionally they drift together and talk, a conversation generally centered on the merits of their last wave. Dave and Gavin surf together five days a week. I envy them. Surfing’s early infatuation is sometimes compared to the first days of love. It’s a hokey analogy, but not entirely untrue; few moments are more edged with excitement, allure and hormone-bubbling-promise of things to come.

Even the love struck have to break for succor. Over greasy hamburgers we plot our course for the afternoon. Actually, our plan is simple--we head south. Because the coastline jigs and jags, Dave and Gavin reckon on finding a spot that is catching the incoming swell even better. I nod enthusiastically in agreement. Blind optimism has crept up and clubbed me senseless. It feels good.

TURF TENSION

The first three stops on our southward journey are Oxnard Shores, Silver Strand and Port Hueneme. All three can produce heart-stopping surf, Silver Strand in particular. All three can also make your heart leap for other reasons, namely nasty localism.

Thirty years ago, good surf in Ventura County might have seen as many as 50 surfers competing for waves. Today it can be a fight just to get a parking spot. This is not a figure of speech. Empty waves being a scarce commodity, residents of certain locales have taken it upon themselves to harass, and at times physically thump, outsiders.

How one qualifies as a local, I’m not sure. A friend of mine who grew up in Port Hueneme and now lives in Ventura still surfs Port Hueneme’s waters with impunity, though at times he is threatened by new locals who don’t recognize him.

Earlier I had been warned about localism by Stan Fujii, owner of the Ventura Surfshop and a local surfer since 1966. He thought the idea of surfing the county was a good one, but he counseled that I be careful in my mention of certain surf spots. Previously published articles that had named coveted surf spots, said Fujii, had resulted in death threats.

“It’s pretty safe to name spots that are easily accessible,” said Fujii. “But when you start naming spots that are a little hard to get to, that’s when you start getting into trouble. What’s the adventure if you give all the work away?”

Truth is, I don’t see exiting the freeway and driving for 10 minutes as much work. But I like Fujii, and I agree with his premise. Today you can phone a surf report without leaving bed (see sidebar). And there are a host of commercial guides who will escort you to exotic locales, eliminating your risk of contracting malaria or becoming an appetizer for the local fauna.

In their quest for surf, the stalwart Wingnut and Pat O’Connell braved white sharks and salt water crocs, as well as the 40-pound droppings from well-fed hippos, which I regard as more dangerous, and possibly more intelligent, than thuggish locals.

We aren’t threatened by locals at Oxnard Shores, Silver Strand or Port Hueneme as the surf is so bad no one in their right mind would claim it, much less defend it. Though I am disappointed, I’m also relieved as my self-defense skills center on a good pair of shoes and lots of room to move.

Standing on the beach at Silver Strand, watching rafts and inner tubes bob about in the surf line, even Gavin is morose.

“This is sad,” he says. “This is worse than the Point.”

Then he brightens.

“County Line is going to be going off,” he blurts. “I just say that because I want that.”

There are surf spots between Port Hueneme and County Line, most notably a number of superb breaks in the waters off the naval base at Point Mugu. But surfing there requires either access to the base or a fast moving boat.

We swing past Mugu and head down the Pacific Coast Highway toward County Line. On the tape deck a group called Green Day scream a primal lament, “Do you have time to listen to me whine?” They may have had cause to whine, but we don’t. It is now 2 in the afternoon and the sun shines brilliantly, turning the ocean an impossibly deep blue. Offshore, kelp beds move en masse. A sea breeze sweeps through, its cool palm caressing our sun-burnt faces.

WAY TO ESCAPE

The second scene in “Endless Summer II” that captures the spirit of surfing involves a sprightly fellow named Walter. Walter is a South African and the buddy of Shaun Tomson, a famous professional surfer from that country. There is some footage of Tomson making beautiful, balletic moves in powerful surf. There is footage of Walter riding the same waves, looking somewhat stiff-legged, as most amateurs would in such challenging surf. Post surf, Walter beams into the camera, his entire face alight.

“If I’ve got a problem, I don’t think about that problem, I think about the waves,” says Walter, which is probably a good thing because Walter can’t swim.

Even mediocre surf carries with it the promise of blessed transport. Immersed in a balm of sun, salt and flat out fun, it’s easy to forget that you were supposed to unclog the kitchen sink and clean the bathroom for company. Irresponsible escapism? Sure. But don’t lecture me until you stop dropping those unopened questionnaires in the trash.

When I spoke to Brown, he told me that most of the surf he rides is lousy. But it didn’t seem to bother him much.

“Last week Wingnut stopped by, and we all went surfing and it was barely ridable,” said Brown. “But we really had a whole lot of fun. It was a warm, sunny day, there wasn’t anyone else around and we were just laughing and giggling and acting like fools. To me that’s about as much fun as you can have.”

Which makes it twice as nice when we pull up to County Line to see neatly groomed four-foot waves sweeping into the beach under a bright sun. No, it isn’t perfect. Sure there are other surfers out. But that doesn’t stop my heart from beating fast. This time I beat Dave and Gavin into the water, though after a time I paddle off by myself. Lying prone, I watch microscopic wind riffles move across the kelp, sunlight etching each sinuous line until it drifts under the nose of my board and disappears. I shut my eyes and drift off with them.

As Gavin would later say, “It was a fun day. Way fun.”

Where to Find the Big Waves

In “Endless Summer II,” filmmaker Bruce Brown postulates that it would take a surfer 50 years to ride every known wave in the world. Most of us possess neither the time nor the cash. The good news is there’s plenty of great surf right here in Ventura County. Finding it, however, could require digging. Or you could just refer to these two excellent guides:

* “Surfing Guide to Southern California” by David Stern and Bill Cleary; Mountain and Sea Publishing, P.O. Box 126, Redondo Beach, CA 90277.

* “Surfing California” by Bank Wright; Mountain and Sea Publishing, P.O. Box 126, Redondo Beach, CA 90277.

Surf hounds who don’t like to read have other options. They can call (310) 976-SURF to get a recording that plays some groovy music and then instructs local dudes to punch 8-0-5. That provides a thorough look at surf in Central California and Ventura County. Cost is $1.50 plus toll charges.

Surfers can also dial the KTYD/Morningstar Surf Line at 967-7411. Plus, they can listen to KTYD for the surf report Monday through Friday at 6:45 a.m. Or they can call the Ventura Surf Shop at 643-1062.