#28: Moonstone Yeah, the waves were lousy. Mushy, blown-out, gutless slop. But we met up with a friend and his daughter, the same friend and his daughter we used to meet up with at Moonstone back in 2003, when the kids weighed nothing and their wetsuits lacked thickness and the thrill of surfing delighted them so much they’d grin incessantly, lips blue from the cold, insisting they were fine, standing up on the slightest bump of swell and riding it to shore. Over and over again.
They surfed together at Moonstone, at Camel, at the Jetty, at South Beach, at G.I. Joe’s (we called it Malibu Barbie’s) one magic winter before the storms caved the rock wall in, when a miracle sandbar set up like the real Malibu, miniature lefts peeling perfection across the cove. To be eight, nine years old and on longboards? Paradise, even with the neoprene.
And we’ve stayed friends, but job changes and family changes and various other activities sucking up more of the kids’ time meant a lot less surfing together. So when a waist-high set came and Kaylee’s friend caught a wave going right and K snagged the left and I witnessed them sharing a wave all these years later, well, the love I feel for them, the pleasure of that moment was perfect enough to make up for the otherwise junky scene.
(Also, I surfed without a leash. Love that.)