Small Waves and Big Business
Brett had to park a full block from the coast highway on another crowded weekend. The Orange County Register surf report had published that the surf would be 2 - 3 feet. Sometimes surf reports are wrong.
The newspaper had also reported water temperatures above 70 degrees at all the Orange County beaches. The warm water was not surprising, given the heat wave that had been dumping energy into the county all week long. I skipped the wetsuit again and opted for trunks, with no rash guard.
"You've decided that you don't like your nipples?" Brett asked.
"I could use a little sun." I replied. It was an odd thing to say with the sky still dark in the cloudless navy blue pre-dawn. but, we both knew that twilight would be upon us soon, and sunlight would be a surplus.
The ocean was as calm as a lake. It was the flattest day that Brett and i had seen yet all summer. The biggest waves waves were one to two foot high, knee high at best.
"This breaks the former record." Brett said. "This is officially the smallest day that we've surfed."
Most of the surfers waited closer to sand, catching the shore break waves, and trying to pull out of them before hitting the sand. I decided to stay out where the bigger waves were breaking. Sometimes patience pays off.
The waves that I did catch, I rode all the way in to shore, pumping through the soft sections when the wave stopped breaking, and them building speed into the shore break section, hitting one good piece of the waves lip before falling off into the knee deep water.
On my paddle back out after one of the long rides, I noticed the clarity of the water in the morning light. The sun had broken over the horizon. I could see the outline of a ray moving across the sand floor through the water.
Back in the lineup, I took up recreational diving. Diving conditions are often inverse to surfing conditions. Visibility is best in calm, waveless waters. I would have been grateful for a pair of goggles or a mask, but wet-eye diving was more fun than sitting on a board waiting for small waves.
The sand bottom was calm and smooth, with only the occasional group of fish or small stingray scurrying from a comfortable burrow in the sand. Kelp pieces littered the floor. I left my leash tied to my leg, diving down and swimming as far as I could underwater.
I've heard that big wave surfers do breath holding exercises, trying to swim under water while two or three waves pass. I tried to stay under water for two waves, a "two wave count". Unfortunately, the waves weren't big enough for me to feel them pass from four feet under the surface. I might have stayed under for a four or five wave count for all I know.
Whenever I take to swimming and diving in the absence of waves, I get odd looks from the other surfers as if I am violating some fundamental rule of conduct. This, of course, amuses the heck out of me. We all came to have fun in the ocean. When the surf is not providing that fun, it ceases to be a surfing spot and becomes a giant swimming pool. I simply treat it accordingly.
"Tomorrow" I told Brett on our way back up the beach "I'm bringing goggles."
"Yea. You'll be really cool then. In fact, let's make sure that I'm seen with you."
Driving out of Huntington Beach, I spotted Brett's car in the lane next to me. I motioned to him to follow me. He rolled down his window.
"Follow me at this next turn." I told him through the traffic.
Brett pulled his car behind my truck and followed me for two blocks up Bolsa Chica Ave. One block later, he pulled up beside me, thinking that this was some sort of joke.
"What the hell are you....."
"It's coming up right here." I hollered, shifting down and pulling into the turning lane. I put on my right blinker.
We turned right on a residential street, a few blocks north of Brett's house. The zoning changed a block later. We passed a park on the right side of the street, and begin to see industrial buildings of the Los Angeles urban sprawl variety, single or two story warehouse style structures.
I checked the street signs, and make a left turn. I drove slowly, looking on both sides of the street. I didn't really know the address that I was looking for, so I keep my eyes glancing from side to side.
Then, I saw the sign. It was low to the ground, slightly obscured by a bit of landscaping. But, it was there. There was the unmistakable logo symbol, a view of Diamond Head in Waikiki through the barrel of a breaking wave, and all upper case lettering: QUIKSILVER.
Brett and I pulled into the front parking lot, stopping in the reserved spots nearest to the front door. With any luck, I thought to myself, I'm sitting in Bob McKnight's parking spot right now.
"You should get a job here." I told Brett. "It's only blocks from your house."
"What is this place?" he asked. "Is it some kind of distribution center?"
"No." I said, looking at the building. "This is Quiksilver corporate headquarters."
The Quicksilver corporate headquarters building is an unspectacular brown concrete tilt up building, sparsely windowed with all the architectural glory of a matchbox. On either side of the front doors, red surfboards stick up out of the ground with the Quiksilver logo emblazoned on them. The door handles are also surfboards. Aside from that, it's just a industrial park building. The carefully landscaped patches of trim green grass and short trees in concrete islands do little to detract from the general look of hard scape and asphalt.
In the curb on the corner of the street is a storm drain with the stencled warning: "No dumping. Drains to Ocean" This is where rainwater washes the dirt, grime, oil, fast food wrappers, and ciggerette butts from Quiksilver's parking lot out into the Pacific.
Brett and I circled the building. Several cars were parked in the rear parking lot, where three train sized air conditioning units are mounted on the ground, their large metal ductwork running up the concrete wall. Walking timidly into the rear parking lot, we found a half-pipe skateboard ramp built in place just behind the building. Locked chains are run across the wooden surface to discourage uninvited skateboarders. Brett noticed that the parking spaces were painted with the Quiksilver logo.
Behind the corporate headquarters is a large building with metal walls. From the eighteen wheel Quiksilver truck, we judged it to be a warehousing and shipping center.
"I wonder if they give tours. You know, P.R. type of things." Brett asked.
"I don't know." I said.
"How did you find this address?" He asked.
"Stock report." I old him. "Quiksilver is public."
Brett and I confirmed our meeting spot for the following morning, and I climbed back into my truck. I leave behind the home of the biggest company in the surfing world. I can't help thinking how strange it is that the sport of surfing is somehow strongly linked to this drab brown, concrete, air conditioned, industrial office park building.
I drove out of the office park to the north, and I couldn't help but notice who Quiksilver's neighbors were. The Quiksilver building is walking distance from a two full square block weapons development facility operated by Boeing, the world's second largest defense contractor.
"Welcome to Huntington Beach" I told myself. "Big surf business and big military spending."
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
Notes:
Quiksilver headquarters (and Boeing) are located in the Westminister watershed. Click here for details.
The map is hard to read because it doesn't show street names, but I'm quessing that the storm drain connects to the Westminister Channel, which then combines with the Bolsa Chica Channel to dump into Huntington Harbor, which empties out into the ocean at the bridge between Seal Beach and Sunset Beach. So, if you want to surf in Quiksilver trash, try Anderson's.
The newspaper had also reported water temperatures above 70 degrees at all the Orange County beaches. The warm water was not surprising, given the heat wave that had been dumping energy into the county all week long. I skipped the wetsuit again and opted for trunks, with no rash guard.
"You've decided that you don't like your nipples?" Brett asked.
"I could use a little sun." I replied. It was an odd thing to say with the sky still dark in the cloudless navy blue pre-dawn. but, we both knew that twilight would be upon us soon, and sunlight would be a surplus.
The ocean was as calm as a lake. It was the flattest day that Brett and i had seen yet all summer. The biggest waves waves were one to two foot high, knee high at best.
"This breaks the former record." Brett said. "This is officially the smallest day that we've surfed."
Most of the surfers waited closer to sand, catching the shore break waves, and trying to pull out of them before hitting the sand. I decided to stay out where the bigger waves were breaking. Sometimes patience pays off.
The waves that I did catch, I rode all the way in to shore, pumping through the soft sections when the wave stopped breaking, and them building speed into the shore break section, hitting one good piece of the waves lip before falling off into the knee deep water.
On my paddle back out after one of the long rides, I noticed the clarity of the water in the morning light. The sun had broken over the horizon. I could see the outline of a ray moving across the sand floor through the water.
Back in the lineup, I took up recreational diving. Diving conditions are often inverse to surfing conditions. Visibility is best in calm, waveless waters. I would have been grateful for a pair of goggles or a mask, but wet-eye diving was more fun than sitting on a board waiting for small waves.
The sand bottom was calm and smooth, with only the occasional group of fish or small stingray scurrying from a comfortable burrow in the sand. Kelp pieces littered the floor. I left my leash tied to my leg, diving down and swimming as far as I could underwater.
I've heard that big wave surfers do breath holding exercises, trying to swim under water while two or three waves pass. I tried to stay under water for two waves, a "two wave count". Unfortunately, the waves weren't big enough for me to feel them pass from four feet under the surface. I might have stayed under for a four or five wave count for all I know.
Whenever I take to swimming and diving in the absence of waves, I get odd looks from the other surfers as if I am violating some fundamental rule of conduct. This, of course, amuses the heck out of me. We all came to have fun in the ocean. When the surf is not providing that fun, it ceases to be a surfing spot and becomes a giant swimming pool. I simply treat it accordingly.
"Tomorrow" I told Brett on our way back up the beach "I'm bringing goggles."
"Yea. You'll be really cool then. In fact, let's make sure that I'm seen with you."
Driving out of Huntington Beach, I spotted Brett's car in the lane next to me. I motioned to him to follow me. He rolled down his window.
"Follow me at this next turn." I told him through the traffic.
Brett pulled his car behind my truck and followed me for two blocks up Bolsa Chica Ave. One block later, he pulled up beside me, thinking that this was some sort of joke.
"What the hell are you....."
"It's coming up right here." I hollered, shifting down and pulling into the turning lane. I put on my right blinker.
We turned right on a residential street, a few blocks north of Brett's house. The zoning changed a block later. We passed a park on the right side of the street, and begin to see industrial buildings of the Los Angeles urban sprawl variety, single or two story warehouse style structures.
I checked the street signs, and make a left turn. I drove slowly, looking on both sides of the street. I didn't really know the address that I was looking for, so I keep my eyes glancing from side to side.
Then, I saw the sign. It was low to the ground, slightly obscured by a bit of landscaping. But, it was there. There was the unmistakable logo symbol, a view of Diamond Head in Waikiki through the barrel of a breaking wave, and all upper case lettering: QUIKSILVER.
Brett and I pulled into the front parking lot, stopping in the reserved spots nearest to the front door. With any luck, I thought to myself, I'm sitting in Bob McKnight's parking spot right now.
"You should get a job here." I told Brett. "It's only blocks from your house."
"What is this place?" he asked. "Is it some kind of distribution center?"
"No." I said, looking at the building. "This is Quiksilver corporate headquarters."
The Quicksilver corporate headquarters building is an unspectacular brown concrete tilt up building, sparsely windowed with all the architectural glory of a matchbox. On either side of the front doors, red surfboards stick up out of the ground with the Quiksilver logo emblazoned on them. The door handles are also surfboards. Aside from that, it's just a industrial park building. The carefully landscaped patches of trim green grass and short trees in concrete islands do little to detract from the general look of hard scape and asphalt.
In the curb on the corner of the street is a storm drain with the stencled warning: "No dumping. Drains to Ocean" This is where rainwater washes the dirt, grime, oil, fast food wrappers, and ciggerette butts from Quiksilver's parking lot out into the Pacific.
Brett and I circled the building. Several cars were parked in the rear parking lot, where three train sized air conditioning units are mounted on the ground, their large metal ductwork running up the concrete wall. Walking timidly into the rear parking lot, we found a half-pipe skateboard ramp built in place just behind the building. Locked chains are run across the wooden surface to discourage uninvited skateboarders. Brett noticed that the parking spaces were painted with the Quiksilver logo.
Behind the corporate headquarters is a large building with metal walls. From the eighteen wheel Quiksilver truck, we judged it to be a warehousing and shipping center.
"I wonder if they give tours. You know, P.R. type of things." Brett asked.
"I don't know." I said.
"How did you find this address?" He asked.
"Stock report." I old him. "Quiksilver is public."
Brett and I confirmed our meeting spot for the following morning, and I climbed back into my truck. I leave behind the home of the biggest company in the surfing world. I can't help thinking how strange it is that the sport of surfing is somehow strongly linked to this drab brown, concrete, air conditioned, industrial office park building.
I drove out of the office park to the north, and I couldn't help but notice who Quiksilver's neighbors were. The Quiksilver building is walking distance from a two full square block weapons development facility operated by Boeing, the world's second largest defense contractor.
"Welcome to Huntington Beach" I told myself. "Big surf business and big military spending."
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
Notes:
Quiksilver headquarters (and Boeing) are located in the Westminister watershed. Click here for details.
The map is hard to read because it doesn't show street names, but I'm quessing that the storm drain connects to the Westminister Channel, which then combines with the Bolsa Chica Channel to dump into Huntington Harbor, which empties out into the ocean at the bridge between Seal Beach and Sunset Beach. So, if you want to surf in Quiksilver trash, try Anderson's.
posted by travinator @ 5:08 PM
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