Trestles and Ghosts

A ride through Southern California’s iconic break, where memory, solitude, and the sea crash together.

It starts the way it always does, with a restless itch under the ribs, a magnetic pull deep in the bones that drags you west. You load up the car at four in the morning, chasing that whisper that the tide's right and the crowd’s thin. San Onofre’s calling. Trestles. Old Man’s. Church. A beach frozen in some mythical pocket of California time, where the waves roll in like sleepy giants and every surfer’s got a sunburnt grin, leathery hands, and stories baked into their bones.

I’d been paddling out there since I was thirteen. My cousin had taken me first. He grew up on it, knew the reef layout like the back of his hand, could read the water like scripture. “Respect the wave,” he’d say. “It’s older than you. Stronger too. You’re just borrowing a ride, the wave allows you to be here, respect it.”

Now I go alone.

I park near the state lot and hoof it with my board under my arm. 6’1”Linden twin fin by Gary Linden, a custom glass job with a rail ding I keep meaning to fix. It’s still dark out, sky bruised purple over the Pacific, and the air smells like salt and weed. I pass other wanderers, surfers in flannel hoodies, some with boards twice their age, some dragging beat-up soft tops behind them like reluctant dogs. There’s a reverence in the walk, a quiet pilgrimage.

The path winds under the freeway, past old graffiti and eucalyptus ghosts, until the beach opens up like a secret.

The break’s already murmuring.

The sets roll in clean, waist-to-chest, maybe head high on the bigger ones. A slow, peeling left off Old Man’s. No wind, glassy as hell. I wax up fast. There’s no time to think when it’s like this, only act. I run my hand across the board like I’m smoothing the back of a sleeping animal, check the leash, and start my paddle.

The first drop is always like returning to something primal. I catch a shoulder-high left, drop in, trim high. The board hums beneath me, that low-pitched thrill that gets in your bones and doesn’t leave. It’s not about tricks out here. This is grace. This is dancing with the ocean’s breath.

There’s a rhythm to San O. It doesn’t slam you like Pipeline or heave like Teahupo’o. It rolls. It invites. But it’ll remind you quick if you get cocky. Seen more than a few guys get caught inside, staring down a set that turned out meaner than expected. It doesn’t roar, but it speaks. And if you listen, you learn things about yourself.

Mid-session, I sit on my board out past the break, watching the horizon stitch itself together, wave by wave. The sun’s cracking through the morning haze now. A pelican skims low across the water, wings barely brushing the surface like a monk tracing prayers into a scroll. The water’s cool, but not cold. Familiar. Comforting.

A kid paddles out next to me. Barely half my age, if that. Sun-bleached hair, eager eyes. He asks if I’ve been surfing long. I laugh. “Long enough to know better,” I say. He grins. “It’s my first time here.”

I nod toward the lineup. “Welcome to church.”

He paddles into a wave. Misses it. Tries again. Misses again. I catch another left, ride it till it fades into foam. The ocean doesn’t owe you anything. You learn patience or you quit.

I remember my cousin saying that the ocean is the last honest place. It doesn’t lie. Doesn’t pretend. You either make the drop or you eat it. No politics. No bullshit. Just you and the water. I think about him now, long gone, his ashes scattered right out past Church. Some mornings, I swear I still see his silhouette in the mist.

The wind picks up around eleven. The glass turns to chop. The sets get lazy. I catch one more wave, a long right that lets me carve slow and lazy down the line. I feel it in every muscle, the joy, the ache, the weight of the years. When I kick out, I float on my back a while. The sky’s blue now, cloudless and bright. The kind of day postcards lie about.

Back on shore, the crowd’s thicker now. Groms trying to showing off, old-timers nodding like monks in a silent order. I nod back.

San Onofre never judges. It just waits.

Tomorrow the tide might suck. The wind might howl. But today, we rode.

And that’s enough.