As a kid it was fun to hear my grandma’s stories about the magic that lies between the Sespe and the Channel Islands but I was too young to know I could still tap that source and more importantly, I had hometown-itus. Every session at the Mushpot, (the appropriately named left at Emma Wood) from the time I was ten until the time I hit the road at eighteen I would imagine I was at Pipeline or G-land or Phantoms. I didn’t care that I was fourth generation in one of the most wave-rich zones on earth, I didn’t care that Emma Wood reef was the place that produced modern surfing’s first big wave crew (Pat Curren, Peter Cole and Greg Knoll), I didn’t care that design revolutions had been test ridden at Emma Wood (Bob Simmons, Bob Mctavish, and George Greenough), I didn’t even care that the overpass there, is where Matt Johnson hit rock-bottom (Big Wednesday’s vehicular bullfight). I just wanted to chase the big lights, big waves and my own big dreams.

I sold everything I had and moved to Oahu at eighteen. After living in Hawaii for a few years I weaseled a gig, starting around 1991 where I actually got paid to go chase big waves and scour the map looking for new unridden realms. My scheme was to find the perfect place that had the exact mix of consistent surf with beautiful backcountry and a rich history and culture. Over those fifteen years I went as far north as the Orkney Islands and as far south as Antarctica. I sifted through the whole equatorial zone and made many pilgrimages to places like West Oz, New Zealand, South Africa and South America.

Somehow though, over all those years my mind would always drift back home. I came to grips with the strange fact that I was happier at Mugu than Hossegor, more inspired by the Sespe than the Andes, more barreled at T’s than at the Box, and more at home at the Mushpot than Pipeline. As time went on I’d do the opposite of what I’d done as a kid. I’d be at Teahupoo or Gnaraloo watching a massive wave implode in itself in a crystal clear warm water aquatic masterpiece and have visions of the Mushpot. Although they have become great friends of mine, I didn’t care about surfing with Kelly Slater, Andy Irons and Laird Hamilton. I wanted to surf with guys like Shrimpo and Jack Cantrell, Frazier and Slime Dog. I was tired of French frog legs and Asian fried rice, I craved oak smoke and tri-tip. Sipping warm wine in Spain is great until you remember cracking a cold Budweiser in Rose Valley.

Today, I still haven’t been able to shirk my travel habits completely but I live back in Ojai in a little ranch house just like I grew up in. Even though we need to go a little deeper into the backcountry, and a little further out in the ocean to find the magic that my grandma and great grandfather lived through in the last century, it is still alive and well for those who live for it.

My sweet grandma Mildred passed on a ways back, and I would give a million dollars to have recorded those stories she told us about Ventura and Ojai when she was a little girl. I’ll always remember her tales of black bears on Ojai Avenue, snow on Santa Cruz Island and the beauty of the handmade culture she grew up in before the oil fields came to town. And every time I paddle out to the Mushpot I tell Emma Wood that “Mily says hello.”