Gateway to Heaven: Surfpacking Point Conception

As it was explained to me, the Chumash people have long considered Point Conception their gateway to heaven. Point Conception, the fertile outcropping that gives California its distinct toe flick into SoCal, is a highly coveted plot of land that’s rich in biodiversity, endlessly beautiful, and has perfect weather. I can understand why the Chumash think of it as their gateway to heaven—it practically is heaven.

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But, the first time I saw this place on a map, I just figured it would make for an easy spot to camp. This roughly 40-mile stretch of coast is enthusiastically relieved of the mega metropolis that strangles the coastline from just south of the point all the way to Ensenada. But that year, when I first tried to camp at Point Conception—those years still a ways off from the wetting the bed years but still a ways from the finally understands the difference between national parks and national forest years—well, I failed miserably. My buddy and I were turned away time and time again until we slept on the side of the 101 freeway in the only quiet space we could find. We were woken up early the next day by someone who didn’t want to run us over while they exited their driveway.

Point Conception has always remained a mystery to me. But, last month, with a gap in my schedule between stories and the remnants of Hurricane Kay blowing through and leaving considerable swell in its wake, I decided it was time to finally try surfpacking. I’ve always been curious about surfpacking, easily defaulting to it as what my mid-life crisis will look like someday during those weird daydreams.

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Dan’s photos from surfpacking in Baja (find that piece linked at the bottom of this post) planted a seed deep in my frontal lobe, so on the morning of the harvest moon, I figured out how to mount this wacky surfboard-bike-rack-thing in the dark and set out before the dawn. The seeds had their opportunity to grow; the time had come to harvest.

The route (if we can even call it that) I set out to ride was a glaringly simple one. Maybe even too simple to be here on the site, in fact. But the ride down to Point Conception isn’t easy. Instead, it’s full of legal loopholes, soft sand, and tidal choke points. You need to cross the beach at low tide—receding, preferably—to give yourself enough time. Big tires help too. A surfboard? Well, that just makes it more fun.

As I crested the rolling foothills of the Jalama coastline, sandwiched between the moon on my left and the big dipper on my right, warm and wet coastal air in my lungs, riding easily, a light tailwind gradually caught the tail of the surfboard sticking out the back. There, in that moment, it all felt right. The board and the bike combined so much easier than I expected. I was nervous to fall and snap a fin or get kited around by a gust of wind. But, a loaded-up fat bike is no spring chicken. My heavy steel Surly was my rig of choice, and so I sat atop the heaping mess and piloted it through switchbacks, descending down to the ocean, whistling the tune of the song written for moments like these. Neil Young would be proud.

The sun finally rose as I was halfway down the coast, tires aired down and covered in seaweed by that point, and I finally got my first glimpse of the point. The lighthouse, now automated for some 50 years, was blinking. The waters around the point are notoriously dangerous due to the colliding current systems meeting here from the south and north. The light wards away the boats, but I felt drawn to it like a moth.

I caught my first glimpse of the coast, too, and just as I put my phone away, a fully grown warthog ran down the beach. Some seals were lying in the sand as well. I went lean my bike against the wall, and there were two big crab eyes bouncing the moonlight back into mine. I slipped on a patch of seaweed and was covered in sand flies. It was a hectic scene. But it serves as a great introduction to this whole new space I was entering.

The Jack and Laura Dangermond Preserve was created back in 2017 as a massive land donation from the namesake billionaires to the Nature Conservancy. For decades, this expansive and ripe plot of land on the coast was used for cattle farming. Then it was bought by a hedge fund in Boston, which began to develop it, digging wells and grading roads against the county’s ordinances. After a heaping of public outcry, the fund sold it to the Dangermonds, and the 24,000-acre plot became one of the biggest charitable land donations in history. Since 2017, it has been returned to the natural world that used to live close to harmony with this unique plot of land, part of the Mediterranean climate that makes Southern California so rare and so special.

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My day at the coast let me see how much progress has been made in a short time. Supposedly, this is the only part of Southern California where bears still wander down the beach. Mountain lions too. They’ve rehabilitated the watershed in various attempts to give the steelhead a chance to spawn. They’re growing acres of oak trees, and the land, extending from the coast high into the hills, covering wetlands, marshes, and forests, is a rare win for environmentalists on our side of the state.

Access to the land is heavily restricted, and for good reason. But the California Coastal Act of 1976 grants public access to all beaches below the mean high tide level. So, riding out here on a low tide is both necessary to avoid swimming in fish guts and also makes it legal. Signs dot the landscape warning that if you try and enter the hills above the beach, lethal force has been authorized for trespassers. I can’t imagine someone killing me for trying to look at some shrubs, but such can be the game out here. People rightfully take conservation really seriously in the area.

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Right around the corner is an even more intensely contested plot of land, the infamous Hollister Ranch, which is of similar size, fruitfulness, and ecological importance. But Hollister Ranch, and the many millionaires owning mansions there, have kept public access strictly off limits. It’s a surfer’s paradise with long sweeping breaks with the winter swells and quiet lineups, but it’s only accessible by a long boat ride from Santa Barbara. For decades, ranchers have driven their trucks right up onto the beach. They’ve built roads and parking lots and tennis courts but keep us common folks out in the name of environmentalism.

So, I got to surfing the only interesting waves I could get to, but my surf was admittedly awful. I missed the window of clean swell, and there was no wind leftover from the hurricane. And, although Hollister is more protected from the wind, I sadly couldn’t pedal my bike into it (and I don’t own a boat). I got out for some waves close to the point, but because of the warm water from the Santa Barbara channel mixing with the cold water from the north, the water was very lively. Seals kept coming over to check me out, and because of them, the locals call this place sharky. And surfing alone, far from people, in sharky water, makes for an intense mental exercise. And that never makes for good surfing.

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I hung out for the rest of the day, skinny dipping, exploring the tide pools, napping, reading, and picking up a dozen Mylar balloons. The sand is full of them, as most remote beaches are nowadays. It’s a sad reminder of the endless encroaching of humanity. In places deemed wild and conserved, owned by humans and protected from humans, we’re never able to fully escape ourselves. I enjoyed a day with no human interaction other than picking up their trash. It’s a rare thing on a Southern California beach.

I waited all day for the tide to drop again. No good waves, no more Harvest Moon. I felt conflicted about my place in this landscape. An observer, a trash cleaner, an agent. I watched a seal have what appeared to be a seizure and struggled to decide if I should intervene. Then I spooked a fox while packing up and decided that maybe I don’t belong. Sure, it’s a legal loophole, but this plot of land was both a gift to the Nature Conservancy and to the greater world.

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The land around the corner suffers from humanity’s overreach as well, and I think we need more places like this in the world. Places with minimal human impacts, with wild foxes on the beach, no parking lot, and only the sounds of waves and birds (and maybe the occasional train passing through the hills). And I also don’t think you should be able to buy the right to build a mansion on a piece of land like this and keep everything else—human or not—away. But then again, I could never afford to, so why listen to me?

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I brought along a collection of John Muir’s writing to pass the time, and I read the line, “Nevermore, however weary, should one faint by the way who gains the blessings of one mountain day; whatever his fate, long life, short life, stormy or calm, he is rich forever.” And I thus felt grateful to be able to spend a mountain day in the sand, frolicking in solitude, talking to seals, away from the strip mall beaches of my hometown. And I saw this space not as one to conquer but one to appreciate, listen to, clean up, immerse into, and connect with. I saw it as a space for reflection. I came to see it as a place that should exist in peace. So, I packed up my surfboard and pair of now-loaded trash bags, and I rode away.

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