Some of the places I discover, visit, and fall in love with, take me
way too long to get back to. Since immigrating to these United States
I've returned there a few times. Each time I set foot on
soil again, bask in its neverending summer's balmy warm air, and
myself is closer to the truth, actually, given the sublime joy of the
experience) in its crystal blue, skin temperature lagoons, I ask myself
what takes me so long to get back here. I never have an answer. There
isn't one. It's just the way my life goes - and doesn't go.
Then there are places I've never visited, yet am in love with anyway,
which have taken me way too long to get to. I've known about Rincon
since I was a teenager, gazing in a state of sheer awe bordering on
disbelief at ground and aerial photographs of this
in John Severson's original Surfer Magazine.
It's taken me way too long to get to Rincon, forty two years too long
in fact. But now I'm here - I'm finally here. It's been worth the wait.
I'm not disappointed. Unlike me, Rincon hasn't changed in forty two
years, and my appreciation of it has only heightened during this time.
This is it. There's a sense of ecstasy, of reverence, of awe, of
As with anything great - locations and experiences both - I've been
this close to Rincon before on many, many occasions yet
didn't even realize how close I was. I've driven by within a stone's
throw of this place and not even known it.
To get here ie for the
of getting here, you have to know exactly what you're looking for.
There's no sign indicating the off ramp for Rincon from the main road
which runs close by. Yes there's a sign. It just doesn't say "To
Rincon". It doesn't mention Rincon at all. I can't say if this is by
design or by
I like to think it's by design. Whatever the reason is, hopefully it
won't ever change.
has a way of no longer being
once the crowds
I wish this weren't the case. All too often it is.
Clearly those who've persevered and found their way to this perfect
beach, to this waters-edge Eden, be they surfers or not, honor
this place and treat it with all the respect it deserves. Noticeably
absent ie note-worthily absent is trash. I can't find one
single piece of litter anywhere. Driftwood logs are tastefully and
appropriately dragged and placed forming makeshift benches, each with a
stunning view of the bay with its lush, gorgeous right peeling tubes,
perfectly wrapping around the point. Carefully chosen smooth flat rocks
and stones are meticulously placed underneath the driftwood log
benches, offering a kind of elemental flooring on which to rest bare
feet and toes encrusted with honey colored sand. Here in the sanctity
of Rincon, human beings quietly and appropriately offer back the bounty
of the ocean to the ocean in honor of and in homage to Rincon's bold
Mother Nature obviously also gives special attention to this jewel. The
beach sand is pristine - clean, as if it's replenished daily to its
original level and condition. The rocks and pebbles on the shoreline
are maintained immaculately by invisible angelic custodial hands, their
pristine golden and amber hues and textures intact. I'm fascinated by
them, drawn to their hues and textures, and I can't quite
figure out why. Then I get it. I want all the clothes in my wardrobe
cut from cloth of these hues, of these textures. Being here inspires me
to wear the shoreline. I want to dress up as a
beach like this one.
When the houses lining the edge of this mecca were
designed, it's very apparent the architects knew exactly what they were
creating. You can't just build anything on a treasure like
this. You have to be respectful in your design because you simply can't
top ... no, it's impossible to top what's already here.
You have to compliment it, and you have to compliment it
with reverence and homage. In a place like this, your house must be an
offering to the location, an enhancement to it. It can't
simply take advantage of it. Blessed are those fortunate enough to call
Rincon their home. Blessed, that is, not because they live here -
that's only secondary, as awesome as it is. Rather, they're blessed
primarily because they've got the vision to
appreciate Rincon fully. They know exactly where they're
at. They get it. There's no mistaking that.
And the waves ...
I don't simply look out into the bay at the waves immediately. First I
prepare myself for the encounter. Treading carefully, I
make by way over wet and
wobbly rocks as far out into the water as I can without having to strip
off out of my Levis and shoes, hoping not to get wet. I
fail. A playful wave comes up to me like a friendly sea otter, and
dances over my shoes filling them in an instant, drenching my jeans up
to the knees. I swear I hear that wave
laughing as it even tries to tip me, holding my balance on
the wobbly rock for dear life, unceremoniously into its warm waters.
Then I hear myself laugh: both in response to the wave's laughter, as
well as at myself for failing to keep my socks dry. What glorious
failure! Failure should always be as glorious as this. Then the wave
subsides. I carefully get my balance back on the rock. Again secure, I
set my hands in the pockets of my faded denim jacket, stand up tall,
and lift my head up straight and high. Now I'm ready. I open my eyes
wide and face the waves.
The reaction is so sudden, so authentic it's overwhelming.
Tears pour out of the holes in my face and stream, unstopped and
unstoppable, warmly down my cheeks, splashing and merging with the
ocean in which I'm standing. I cry out spontaneously, an
undistinguished gasp. Ecstasy explodes any semblance of logic and
rationality which remain.
The second thought which comes into my mind is with
regards to the technicalities of these waves, these
heart breakingly beautiful perfect expressions of water,
wind, and tide ... these inspired sculptures of liquid equestrian
I want to ride them!
But the first thought I have, the one that triggers it
all for me, is I want to share this experience with Werner like a
This is my first thought. It's genuine. I go looking to find Rincon, a
place I've loved since I was a teenager yet never gotten to - until
now. I find Rincon. It's everything I imagine it would be or even
could be. Given the elapsed forty two years, it waaay
exceeds anything I think it should be. Yet the first
in‑depth experience I have here, the essential experience I have
here, the quint-essential experience I have here is beyond
beauty, beyond awe, beyond reverence, even beyond surfing
perfection ... it's all of that, and it's beyond all that.
What I get at Rincon ie the bedrock experience I have at
Rincon, that is to say the space in which Rincon can show
up for me magnificently this way, is Werner like a