Join us as we take a quick ride down the bike path from the parking lot to the world famous Trestles surfing beach.

Of course if the toll road had been built, this trail probably wouldn’t exist anymore.

Enjoy the ride.  Watch out for pedestrians!

En todo cumpleaños tiene que haber unas velas a la altura de la ocasión:

When I was eleven, my brother got it into his mind that he wanted to go to surf camp.

Upon hearing this, my mom immediately tracked me down and asked if I wanted to go. I was busy at the time with my favorite recreational activity: sitting on my ass, playing video games. Failing to grasp the deadly connotations of what I was being asked, I promptly agreed without thinking.

A few days later, while downstairs eating dinner, I was reminded of my irresponsible pledge. I was going to surf camp? Certainly they had me confused with some other boy. I did not surf. I played StarCraft and read Redwall novels.

“I’m not going,” I said. “I don’t want to surf.”

But Mom wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh yes you are! I asked you last week if you wanted to go and you said yes. Your dad’s already signed you up.”

I was incensed. Why on earth had Mom been bothering me about surfing in the first place? I was playing Super Mario RPG, dammit! Of course I hadn’t been paying attention!

The check had been sent, however, and thus my fate sealed: my brother and I were to be taken that Friday down to San Onofre, along with his friend Brandon, to learn how to surf. You couldn’t have found a more disappointed boy on the planet.

“Oh, you’re slowly dying from a horrible cancer death? Big deal. I have real troubles. I have to go to surf camp.”

My misgivings grew in measures as my dad pulled up that Friday morning to the camp site where we would be staying. Some thirty year old wannabe teenager with messy blonde hair whose name I never bothered to remember came out to greet us. I’ll call him Ben. A few other kids and teenagers milled about excitedly in their hormonally charged freedom from their parents, acting in that obnoxious, hyper manner of horny kids everywhere hoping to score. Everyone was looking forward to the first lesson.

Everyone but me, that is. My pessimistic nature was out in full force, claws bared (but reluctantly so) and hackles raised (I lie; I’ve never raised a hackle in my life, not even a bit). I was sulking, and with good reason: I was being abandoned for three whole days with a score of other white kids from the ‘burbs who didn’t know the ass end of surfboard from a tree stump.

Thankfully, my brother and Brandon also realized the horrible mistake we were making; we didn’t like kids like these people–these were the kids that kept their hair short and styled and enjoyed listening to Eminem. I listened to Weird Al. They wore Oakley sunglasses and Quicksilver board shorts. I didn’t even know what Oakley’s were. No doubt some of the older guys here had even gotten laid already. And even more, most the girls were hot. No, these were definitely not our kind of people.

I was wishing I had thought to invite a friend. To be fair, I really only had one actual acquaintance that fit that description, a fellow Nintendo guru named John Betts. John and I often took turns sleep over at each others’ houses, sometimes not emerging from the dark hollows of our rooms and getting a bit of fresh air for an entire weekend. No, John most certainly wouldn’t have had the bad sense to go to surf camp had I even asked.

We stood there, three awkward, misplaced souls, huddled together like fodder. It was cold. I was cold. And I certainly didn’t need this bozo with the bleached hair talking to me.

“‘Sup guys, welcome to Surf Camp. You guys ready to get wet?”

I didn’t answer, vaguely aware that Ben had just asked me something a little dirty. Isn’t that what girls did to you when they wanted sex? Get you wet? Why would he be asking me? Embarrassed, I let Chris and Brandon utter some half-hearted reply while I tried to find some out-of-site place to stand where no one else would try and talk with me.

Our spot was just off to the side of the main, community-sized tents, one of a few for those who didn’t wish to be team players. Despite the fact that it was cold and gray, we were ordered to go inside and change into our swim trunks.

Thankfully, I had just went out and had my mom buy me a new pair, shorts that actually reached the knee for once. It had been quite some time since I had swam in something other than my Speedo, which everyone would agreed was a bad idea to bring. I was quite proud of my new shorts–blue, with a snappy Hawaiian flower print on them. In my mind, I thought I looked more like a suave surfer in these and less like the scrawny, pale nerd I was.

I was significantly less proud of the fact they had a very large and visible Old Navy logo on the back, but sometimes you have to work with what you’ve got.

Before we could get started, we were told we would have to make a quick trip to the local surf shop to grab some supplies we may have forgotten. This was when things went ugly.

Due to buried anxiety, or perhaps just internal pressures, I had a sudden need to find a bathroom. Ben had mentioned we would be leaving in ten minutes, so I quickly ran to the little bank of glorified out-houses nearby. These dismal abodes most assuredly did not rate as toilets; what they were were pitch-black, light-less, waste-filled pits topped with an ice-cold ring of urine-speckled metal.

The stench was horrifying–the kind of putrid aroma that breaks through your nose and into your mouth, so that you not only must slowly suffocate in lethal clouds of Eu de Shit, but taste it while dying, so that your last memory of this world is spent thinking that you now know what shit actually tastes like. San Onofre beach-goers have some of the foulest smelling turds in the world.

I had just settled down to my business, shorts around my ankles, my body hunched with elbows resting comfortably on my thighs, when I heard the telltale slap-slap of flip-flops quickly approaching. Worse, I could hear those same slap-slap’s belonged to a group of giggling females.

One of them said, “Hold on, I need to pee real quick.”

I gasped internally, horrified at the prospect of being caught going number two. This was the age when my social anxiety thrived. If I happened to be using a public restroom for a number two at, say, the mall, and someone happened to knock, I wouldn’t answer. Better to let them bang that door and rattle that handle in frustration then admit I was taking a poo.

The darkening line of a shadow suddenly filled the little gap of light beneath the door. Panicking, I double-checked the lock to make sure it was set. The door used a single dead-bolt to ensure its occupants privacy, and it looked OK. I relaxed–she would try the handle, find that it was locked, and then go search for a different hut to use.

The next thing I know I’m being blasted with daylight. It served to illuminate perfectly the pretty blonde standing before me, the one with the look of abject horror stamped across her face. In a classic moment that probably should have been caught on tape, she literally clapped her hands to her cheeks and shrieked like a young, blonde Macaulay Culkin in drag. This was no pansy type scream, like one might make when see a mouse on the kitchen floor, or a man in the shower with a large knife–No, this was a bloodcurdling, hair-raising, banshee cry of death.

The door slams shut again, leaving me in the darkness bewildered and blinded. I was stunned. What the hell was that!

I might have convinced myself it was only a simple hallucination brought on by the combined pressures of exercise and lack of Nintendo, but this excuse was quickly squashed by the excited gibbering of girls outside the door. They spoke in the soothing tones of a someone consoling a friend who’d just walked into a bathroom and discovered a pant-less boy already inside taking a dump. They sounded truly sympathetic.

For some unfathomable reason, they didn’t leave. No, they had to stand outside and discuss incident. I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying, but alarming words such as “with us” and “surf camp” made their way in.

They stood outside a good five minutes or so just talking, which I spent perfectly silent as I wracked my mind for a feasible means of escape. There was no vent on the roof I might crawl through, GI Joe style, and only one door. The other direction was simply unacceptable. I was trapped.

Eventually, my mind was made up for me. One of the girls said, “Oh my god, is he still in there? I feel so bad!” and they quickly left. I could hear their giggling slowly fade away.

With them gone I could at last finish my business. I had probably been in the outhouse a solid fifteen minutes by the time I had gotten out.

As I walked the distance back to surf camp, I remember asking myself, “Do you think she told anyone?,” followed by my response of, “Na. She wouldn’t do that . . . would she?”

I walked into the campground to find everyone already waiting for me in the van, which was already revved and ready to go. I opened the side door of the van, just hoping to leave the whole disagreeable incident behind me.

As it turned out, this was not meant to be. Not only did I have to sit right next to the girl whom I frightened so badly, it was immediately obvious that she and her friends had blurted the entire disagreeable scenario to everyone. Snickers erupted as I sat down, and my brother shook his head in a healthy mixture of disgust and shame, while Brandon was cracking up. Even Ben was having trouble keeping a straight face.

I became known as that boy in the bathroom.

“You’re here with your brother?” people would ask Chris. “What’s his name? Who? Oh, him–the bathroom boy,” they’d say. “Has he figured out how to lock a door yet?”

If I had hoped the whole thing would blow over and the rest of the trip would be somewhat enjoyable, I was sadly mistaken. Perhaps due to my previous escapades, or perhaps because he found their cavalier manner and deplorable spiked hair as diminishing as I, Brandon decided we shall not sit with the others. Abandoning the protective husk of the canopy Ben and the others had set up on the sand, we grabbed our few belongings and migrated to a more secluded location nearby. Spreading our little cartoon-print beach towels across the sand, we plopped ourselves down and pretended to not miss the stereo. Brandon had brought his pilfered, UNRATED Rob Zombie CD, which he had been forced to shoplift from a local Wal-Mart as he mother was convinced it was Devil-Worshiping music. We never did get to listen to it, much to our considerable chagrin–although, we did get to hear piddling snatches of whichever Bob Marley or Sublime tracks that happened to journey our way.

The rest of the trip continued the same disappointing trend as those first thirty minutes. I remember nearly drowning once or twice because the Brazilian guy who suddenly appeared one afternoon to teach had me try and surf under red-flag conditions. My body was thrashed around like a dishrag in those strong currents, and between the fear and noise levels I was producing, it’s a wonder one of the local sharks didn’t decide to make an easy meal out of me.

I’ve since learned to avoid deep waters and Brazilians. Neither have proved very good for my health.

I remember standing up once, perhaps twice, while surfing. and I most certainly remember being videotaped on one morning so that later in the evening Ben could playback large streams of me falling on my ass over and over, much to the collective delight of everyone else. And I remember Brandon slapping me in the face with the sleeve of my wetsuit.

I was having some capacious difficulties with my wetsuit. We were sitting on our little isolated spot on the beach after a few hours in the cold water, trying to warm up and rest for an hour or so. Brandon, I remember, was psychotically cleaning every last grain of sand from his sunscreen bottle. Chris was doing something, and I don’t remember what, only that what he wasn’t doing was helping me.

“It’s too tight,” I whined, still struggling to free an arm from a sleeve after a solid ten minutes. It was attached to me like a suction pump, and my finger tips were beginning to tingle from the constant pressure. “Help me, Chris! It’s too tight! Chris? Chris? Hey, Chris? It’s too tight!”

I was ignored. And I was starting a case of something akin to claustrophobia. I imagine people strapped into straight jackets experience the same feelings of entrapment. My faced flushed and my skin prickled. My hand was starting to cramp from all the pulling I was doing. I was trapped in an itchy layer of irritating dampness and chaffing sand, and I wasn’t taking it any longer.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do in such a situation: I panicked.

I had somehow managed to pull both arms down to where my elbows ought have been. My back and shoulders were exposed and free, while my legs remained stuck fast. I flailed about like a drunk pigeon caught in a plastic bag, my futile attempts to get at least one sleeve off failing.

First, I tried shaking the sleeves off, batting one hand in the air at a time, like a finicky cat. Nothing.

I tried thrashing left and right, hoping the laws of centripetal force applied to too-tight wetsuits.

Again, nothing.

Both of my solutions having failed, I began spinning around like a top for God knows what reason.

One of the spiky-haired cool kids happened by at this time and witnessed my struggle. Walking very purposefully forward, he stopped, leaned forward, and looked me square in the eye.

I stopped squirming and looked up. He had a glimmer in his eye that spoke of important news. listened attentively

“Have some common fucking dignity,” he said, using that special tone of voice saved for speaking to child rapists or serial murderers. Then he turned and left.

Brandon, already disgraced by my earlier jollies in the outhouse, lunged forward and jerked one arm free with a single tug to my wetsuit. And then he slapped me in the face with it. Hard.

“What the heck,” Chris said to me, shaking his head for the hundredth time that weekend. “What is wrong with you?”

I was relived beyond measure when the glorious day of our departure happened by. I waved goodbye to the others with my middle finger, then hopped in Brandon’s mom car and proceeded to start pretending the entire trip had never happened.

Don’t ever let your kids go to surf camp.

 California is telling skinny-dippers to put some clothes on, and the message is sending a chill through lovers of sunning-in-the-buff across the country.

In what one national nudist organization calls “a tremendous setback” for its cause, California’s Department of Parks and Recreation has tossed aside a longstanding policy of toleration and is warning of a crackdown on nude sunbathers at San Onofre State Beach.

Bob Morton, executive director of the Naturist Action Committee, a Wisconsin-based organization that fought the nudity ban in court, worries that other beaches where nudity is allowed could follow California’s lead.

“There are other states in which there are sanctioned nude beaches,” he says. “They’re all looking to see what California is doing.”

Beachgoers say a secluded 1,000-foot section of shoreline here has been a popular spot for nude sunbathing for more than 30 years. It even attracts tourists from out of state who seek all-over tans.

Nude sunbathers have been coming here since the 1970s after President Nixon, whose Western White House was nearby, ordered the Marine Corps to open 6 miles of Camp Pendleton’s oceanfront to the public.

Protected from prying eyes and busy Interstate 5 by 300-foot cliffs, the section closest to the Marine base boundary “presented itself as a perfect place for a clothing-optional beach,” says Allen Baylis, a lawyer who says he has enjoyed nude sunbathing here since the 1970s.

Park Superintendent Richard Haydon began efforts to halt the nudity after receiving reports of sexual activity and solicitation for sex. Morton’s group sued the department.

Morton says the department acted illegally when it abandoned a long-standing policy of moving against nudity only when it received specific complaints from the public on the day an offending incident occurred.

As a school assignment to do a Veteran’s Day blog, I was Googling “Marine surfers” and happened across the Camp Pendleton Surf Club.  As I read the latest post entered on the www.cpsurfclub.com today (November 14), my heart ached.

The reality sunk in.   The violence of a war 180 degrees from San Clemente came into our living room through the mention of Sgt. Charlie Cartwright, a surf brother. 

See, the posting said that Sgt. Cartwright died on November 7 while supporting Marines in combat in Afghanistan.   This was his fourth, and last, tour of duty in the Middle East.

I never met Sgt. Cartwright, but I wish I had.  According to Ted Handler, as posted by Steve on cpsurfclub.com, Sgt. Cartwright was “one of the truly good guys out there and unlike us — he could no shit surf.”  Being stationed at Camp Pendleton, Sgt. Cartwright surfed the local beaches.  That brought it home that Sgt. Cartwright may well have been a member of our own Trestles Surf Crowd.  Fittingly, there was a paddleout at Church on Veteran’s Day for Sgt. Cartwright.  And, he sounds like a great guy–wish I had met him.

Here’s a link to Sgt. Cartwright’s bio – http://freedomremembered.com/index.php/sgt-charles-i-cartwright/.

What amazes me is that Sgt. Cartwright signed up for the Marines on September 10, 2001, the day before the Twin Towers attack.    It sounds like he always wanted to be a United States Marine.  His sense of duty on our behalf started from when he was just a boy.  No matter how one feels about our involvement in other countries’ battles, you can’t help but admire our brothers and sisters who raise their hands to stand in the gap between our safety and the enemy.

Reading about Sgt. Cartwright reminded me once again how we take our privileged lives for granted while heroes like him face the reality of not knowing if they will be returning home.

Sgt. Cartwright, we salute you and thank you!  Semper Fi   . . .   and Hang Ten!

Norchez!

the days are juicy, soaking up every last drop

a difficult vantage point for anything

what’s to look at?

Trails

I think I’ll be seeing a lot more of this where I reside now.

walking

surfing

viewing

Half Birthday Suit, he don’t care. And a good place to end.

Blacks' Beach Nude Surf Session

So it’s only appropriate to celebrate that for the last few months that’s been possible. Grab a board, nothing else, and head out into the surf. For a few weeks in late August and early September the water was in the high 70’s. Now it’s back to the low 70’s, and very soon will be dipping back into the 60’s (and beyond) until next summer. But while it’s here…it’s GREAT!

This year we did nude surfing at San Onofre Trail Six and Black’s Beach. The waves are generally a bit better at San O, but Black’s is a much better beach. Nicer sand, better scenery, livelier beach scene. And thanks to Lloyd and team from the Blacks Beach Bares, you can enjoy some boogie boarding, bbqs, umbrellas and great crowd when you’re not surfing.

Surf Lesson Student who was riding the waves in minutes

In the next few weeks the water will cool and nude surfing will be a memory…at least for 2009. But it’s also a promise for 2010 and the fun of summer and Things To Do Nude. If you’ve never done it. Make a resolution now that 2010 will be your year to try. It’s fun. It’s healthy. It’s natural. It’s Great!

San Onofre Nude Beach

It’s where I learned to surf, met my best friend, and let the harshness of everyday life percolate through sun and sand to become the rich story of my life. And now they plan to close it in just a few weeks. Or at least put a stop to a couple hundred people who like to gather without clothes. But since you have to pay $15 per day to park (or $175 per year for a pass) drive 5 miles to a dead-end road, walk about 1/2 mile, and end up on a beach that’s so rocky getting into the water can by physically painful, I can’t imagine many people will go there if they can’t be naked.

So time will tell. Will bureaucrats and those who believe they know how others should live their life succeed in telling us we can’t be naked on this remote stretch of beach? Or will some common sense and freedom prevail and let people continue to chill out, relax, catch a few waves in the buff? If you’re reading this you’re likely a nudist, or at least curious. We hope you’ll support the cause and help promote places and events that encourage nudity, freedom, self expression. That’s our goal at Things To Do Nude. Life’s too short and too much fun to be hidden under clothes

San Onofre Nude Beach

Today we ended up going to San O after we worked on our boards. It was pretty slack but we got some alright rides.

Historic.

My cornish babe courtesy of Keith from Freeriders Surf Shop.

Mitch standing on the hood of a Mercedes.

The board point of view on the drive home.

I used to be a pretty avid camper, but that went the way of the dodo with my marriage to an admittedly prissy guy; one who thinks of low-budget motels as “roughing it.”

When my sister and her family invited us on a camping trip to San Onofre, I jumped at the chance to take the girls on their first camping trip. It doesn’t get much better than camping at the beach!

The girls had a blast. The first day Cara was very excited about the tent until she realized that we were actually sleeping there, not going home to her bed. AJ (aka “The dirtiest child in existence”) spent two days covered in grime, which is Heaven, as far as she is concerned.

My old camping air matress broke ages ago, so I brought along my new Aero Bed. That thing is HUGE. And although I was expecting a good night’s sleep, I slept poorly both nights. One night I actually woke up with AJ’s toes on my lip, so that didn’t help. I slept with one eye open from then on.

My four-room, eight-person tent. Nicknamed “the condo”:

This is my sister, scooping out diced potatoes that were frying in bacon grease in a cast iron dutch oven. To say that was the best meal I’ve had this month wouldn’t even be the slightest exaggeration.

So the big swell hit so cal on Friday and it’s still here.

On Saturday Mitch, Kelly and I went to San O. Kelly was out since she got hit by Mitch’s Chuck Dent funboard. I wonder why his last name is Dent? Anyways I was stoked to try out my Alaia for the first time. As soon As I got in the water, I found that the board had no buoyancy  which I kinda expected. I hopped on the board to start paddling and then I was like, how did the Hawaiians do it back in the day? I started paddling forward and the board started to come out of the water and I was actually doing fine. It’s kind of like normal swimming with some resistance against the chest. Some whitewater started to approach and I figured I can just duck dive them like a normal surfboard. I did and the thing duck dives like no other. Since there’s no float and it’s so thin, it’s pretty much the easiest thing to do when on an Alaia. I finally got out back and sat on the board. I was up to my neck in water, which I already knew would happen since Mitch tested his Alaia out earlier in the week. I tried to catch a few waves but it just didn’t happen. My conclusion was that Alaias work better on wave steeper than San O. Oh yeah the wax(paraffin wax that I rubbed into the board to make it water proof) just flaked off. I realized that while I was out there the board’s float kept decreasing. I ended up going in and taking out my single fin.

Here’s Mitch checking out the happenings.

El pasado sábado 4 de Julio, la familia socialista de Quart de Poblet celebró el día del militante. Una ocasión más para pasar una agradable velada de compañerismo. Tras las elecciones europeas, un nuevo éxito para los socialistas de Quart de Poblet, todos teníamos ganas de celebrarlo. Y que mejor manera que con una paella, bajo la sombra de los pinos, en buena compañía y con ganas de pasarlo bien.

Ahora, lo que tenemos que hacer todas las agrupaciones socialistas de la Comunidad Valenciana, es implicar a mas gente en nuestro proyecto, conseguir que cada año sea mayor la militancia. Debemos de ser conscientes del valor de la militancia.

El PSPV tiene que ser capaz de transformarlos con un buen trabajo de formación y participación, llevándoles a ser referentes políticos, sociales y culturales dentro de su ámbito. Las casas del pueblo deben ser un sitio atractivo al que acuda el ciudadano para participar del debate común y el socialista activo debe ser una persona de la que su red social requiera sus razones ante cuestiones presentes en el debate de la opinión pública. Debemos generar un debate interno que termine produciendo un discurso más moderno, más apegado a la realidad, hecho con el lenguaje y con el análisis del presente. Un discurso capaz de proyectarse sobre la mayoría de la sociedad valenciana, atractivo y motivador.

I just got back from a long weekend camping at San Onofre State Park.  I didn’t have twitter readily available but if I did here’s what I would have wrote…

1. Meeting everyone at the grocery store.

2. @btjowett just exploded a package of hummus.

3. Pitched three tents.

4. Drinking large amounts of beer.

5. Peeing large amounts of beer.

6.  Sleeping with @johnheineman for the first time.

7. Woke up and peed some more.

8. Watching @mattpage eat a cupcake for breakfast.

9. Eating drinking rice krispies in a cup because @HarrisDC forgot spoons.

10. Watching everyone put on wetsuits in a non-homosexual way.  Or was it?!!

11. Watching everyone try to surf.

12. I think I saw a dolphin.

13. Yahtzee!

14. Eating burgers for the third time in 4 meals.

15. Peeing for the 1914315th time on this trip.

16. Woke up to rain and decided fuck it, we’re going to McDonald’s.

17. Encountered the dumbest McDonald employees in America.  But damn do they make a good breakfast.

18. I just realized I haven’t changed my clothes in three days.  I’m finally a hipster.

19. Came back home and quickly went to sleep in same three day old clothes.

20. My hair still smells like smoke after three washes.

21. Relaxed.

I’m sitting in the motor home just outside of Perry’s house. This is my home in Huntington Beach. I can hardly keep from eating the icing-coated oatmeal cookies that Laurie bought for me. I finally just put them away… moving on to the pretzels!

This was one jammed-packed weekend! It all began Friday morning when I rode into work. Literally, because I have been riding my bike all over Huntington Beach, including the 9-mile trek to the Quik HQ. Friday at Quiksilver headquarter was “Wheelie Fun Friday.” It was an exciting event for all of the Quik employees: karaoke challenges, hoola-hoop contests and more! Plus, plenty of beer — for those who are of age, of course. The grand finale: CEO vs. President in a Sumo wresting match! It was an incredible day. I was able to meet lots of new people and help out with an exciting Quik event. Everyone knows me as “Ryan the Intern” now. Thanks Kliney. By the way, you can see the Kliney vs. Beeson match HERE.

Saturday was THE POINTE surf day with Christian Surfers. Yet again, I was up at 5:30 a.m. We went to the River Jetties and had an awesome surf session. It had been flat all week… and was still flat up north at the Cliffs. But the Jetties here goin’ off in the morning! That night, I rode my bike back over to the pier to check out the AVP volleyball tournament and the happenings on Main Street. Went back out for a second session.

After church on Sunday, we drove about 45 minutes south to San Onofre, just south of Trestles. We camped there Sunday night and surfed ALL DAY on Monday. It was epic! Fun surf and clear, beautiful skies with warm weather. I surf with Christian and met up with the Newport Beach chapter for a BBQ. And I met this guy from up near Seal Beach — Justin. He was there with his church on a retreat. We had one of those long, deep conversations that always seem to come up while sitting by the camp fire.

I came back absolutely exhausted. My arms weren’t necessarily tired, but my whole body just felt kind of worn out. I guess that’s what 4 solid days of surfing, cliff-climbing, biking, skating and camping will do to you. Ready to tackle another week at Quiksilver. And I almost forgot — check out some pics from this weekend.

Yesterday I went on a great ride. I packed up my bike, some food and gear and went down to the Dana Point harbor. My plan was to ride from there down the coast to the marine base, past the San Onofre State beach and nuclear plant. Everything was all set and I left the car at about 1:30p if I remember right. The ride there was quite easy, mostly flat ground with very minimal hills when rolling through San Clemente. What’s very nice is that when you leave Hole in the Fence beach there are signs in San Clem that direct you to Califa Road which where the main bike roadway is to the marine base. It was not difficult at all to find my way. It was a perfect day with no clouds in the sky, was warm and there was awesome visibility. Also, tons of other riders out. Now that I’ve gained more knowledge about bikes and things it’s easier for me to point out some of the more expensive bikes that other riders are riding. Riding this trail and seeing awesome bikes is like going down to Rodeo Drive and seeing all of the Lamborghinis. It was a really fun ride. The intersection where I finally stopped was Old Highway 101 and El camino Real. My bike computer clocked it at 20.27mi from the Dana Point Harbor. Like I said, the ride there was a breeze and only took me about an hour and a half. The Ride back was a different story. It started out ok, got hungry so I stopped to eat and get some energy back. One of the hardest things though was that I was working against the wind the whole time, riding 20 miles against wind… not fun, haha. Anyways the last 10 miles were when the fatigue really started to kick in for me. My legs were ok, its just after 3 hours sitting on that damn seat becomes, quite literally, a pain in the ass haha. Anyways, it was a great ride and I’m def going to do it another time. It’s kinda one of those once a month rides. It also get a little lonely after 25 miles so it’s a good ride for a group. Other than that I didn’t really encounter and dangers except that I rode through a swarm of bees that were on the trail and I also crossed a rattlesnake’s path, haha. In the end the ride totaled 40.57miles. I would definitely recommend it to anyone that wants to give it a try. I added some photos to the album. A pic of a beautiful resting spot along San O beach and a memorial set up on the side of the road and a couple others.

Pics: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=48304&id=680454665&l=e87603e339

Small Crowd on a Winter Day

One of the great things about California is that even in winter you can get great nude beach days. Like today.We headed down to Trail Six at San Onofre and surfed a few hours.Of course this time of year that means a full wetsuit since the water is in the high 50’s, but the sun was shining and beach temperatures were about 70.

Drying the wetsuit

The crowd was small.About a half dozen surfers (all guys).Not many of the regulars until later in the afternoon.There was one young couple.As you’d expect, the guy was naked almost immediately, the girl took much longer.They didn’t stay long, but at least got to enjoy an hour or two of laying naked in the sun in February.

Summer is still the best season for San Onofre. The air is warm all day and so is the water.Sun doesn’t set until after 8. But in winter you always get a good parking place (sometimes in summer you don’t get one at all), and you get your choice of places to sit. There’s a peaceful and quiet feeling to the place that’s nice. And it’s very easy to get in a game of nude Frisbee golf without hitting anyone with the occasional bad toss.

There are official courses all over the country, but with a little imagination you can create a course anywhere. At San Onofre we use trash cans as the “holes”. Sometimes we use big pieces of driftwood that stick up out of the sand. You score when you hit the can or stick. You can set the course as short or long as you like. We enjoy mixing it up.A few short holes, a few long ones. A few clear, open shots….and a few where you have to negotiate some big bushes and gullies.

Nude Frisbee Golf Game

We’re working on a handy instructional video on How to Play Nude Frisbee Golf for the Things To Do Nude website. If you’ve got some sports you love, and enjoy even more naked, let us know about them. We’re always looking to update the website and appreciate contributions.

Thanks!

“The Surfrider Foundation South Orange County Chapter is hosting a Trestles victory party on Friday, February 6, 2009, to celebrate the Federal government denying the proposed toll road through San Onofre State Beach. The party is being held on February 6th to mark the one year anniversary of their most gratifying victory when the California Coastal Commission voted to strike down the toll road”

If you can, come and join the party!

“The Surfrider Foundation South Orange County Chapter is hosting a Trestles victory party on Friday, February 6, 2009, to celebrate the Federal government denying the proposed toll road through San Onofre State Beach. The party is being held on February 6th to mark the one year anniversary of their most gratifying victory when the California Coastal Commission voted to strike down the toll road”

If you can, come and join the party!

-CG

This was an afternoon like no other.  This was an afternoon only experienced a few times in a young boy’s life.  This was a day where a young boy could experience nature in such a rare occurance.  This was a day where the tide was so low and made lower because of the full moon. 

This was a day where Armand could walk and explore the ocean bottom.  Normally where he walked, the water would be at least six feet, with waves crashing overhead.  Not only is the depth normally a hiderance, but the waves crashing against the rocks would make it impossible to explore at a high tide, or even a normal tide. 

Armand was able to see a Flounder hiding in the sand.  Armand heard his friend say he saw a Stingray.  Armand was able to rescue a starfish and place him back in the water to breathe.  Armand saw the kelp beds in their natural environment instead of parched on the beach.   He saw the sea plants flowing in the water.  

He appreciated nature at its most vulnerable.  The tide was so low that plant and animal life were threatened until the tide came back in to shore.  We were able to appreciate the delicate balance for sea life.  We were able to truly appreciate the gifts we have in our life.