Buenaventura, mis amigos
09/20/2009 at 22:34 from (34.200558, -119.203056)
Our first day in Ventura was relaxed and low-key. Scooter had to run out early to work on his portfolio, so we talked for a bit, then borrowed his roommate's longoard (which was missing a fin and, we were told, would "pull to the left") and headed to the pier to try our luck at surfing. Marijana and I took turns, one awkwardly attempting to catch a wave, the other shaking their head in embarrassment from the safety of the shore. I caught a few, but spent the majority of my time paddling around, too far out to get on top of anything and too ignorant to know it.
The regulars (well, mostly a drunk SoCal kid we met on the way to the beach named Phillip) mocked and chided us, before telling me -- once we were already too tired to keep going -- that we had chosen a particularly harsh spot to drop in with a longboard. Pointing up the beach, he showed us a place called, appropriately, Surfer's Point, where the waves seemed to roll on forever. A little wiser, we strolled further on down the beach, taking in the sea air and marveling at the sand and how something could be at once so lovely and so frustratingly annoying.
Back at the house, we showered, lounged for a bit, and just generally waited for Scott to get back. Once he had gotten a chance to catch his breath, we started hashing out places to eat. He suggested we try the world famous La Taqueria Super-Rica, and we readily agreed. According to Scooter, Julia Child herself was a fan of the place, so it was clearly good enough for the two of us. Once there, I ordered in awkward, halting Spanish, while Marijana and Scooter used the more sensible numbered system. Marijana had a surprisingly good quesadilla and I had Oaxacan burritos with a mole that was the best I've had (yet). We left very full and very excited because, if this was "authentic" Mexican food, we were in for a treat.
We came home to Scooter's house as they prepared for a party. His roommates had challenged each other to a drinking contest with fortified wine, so we spent the remainder of the night playing cards and watching the people around us get drunker and drunker. After helping clean up a few messes (and finally beating Scott in his stupid card game), we slipped into Scooter's bedroom and passed out, exhausted from a long day of relaxing.
The next day, we slept in and awoke to the trumpeting of announcers voices and the roar of crowds. It was college football game day, and we spent the entire day planted in front of the TV, soaking up scores and highlights, stats and factoids. Just as we were preparing to leave for some other diversion, the UW vs. USC game came on. We, like everybody else who knew or cared, assumed the game would be a thrashing and we would emerge beaten and embarrassed. As true fans, though, we watched anyway. As the game progressed and the Huskies dominated the flow of the game more and more, we found ourselves becoming increasingly nervous. Once USC ran down their final 3 seconds of possession, we leapt to our feet, jumping and yelling and hugging as the stadium emptied and the fans on the field followed our lead.
To celebrate, we headed to the beach for a round of volleyball. We played for a long while, but as we grew more tired and the wind picked up, the game began to resemble an elaborate form of fetch. Instead, we opted to throw the football around for a bit, Scooter and his buddies making spectacular passes and diving catches, Marijana and I struggling to throw the ball in a spiral (but, I reminded myself, we'd kick their asses in the pool). Eventually, the sky began to darken and we found ourselves riding back to the house, thoroughly exhausted and ready for sleep, even as Scooter begged us to go partying with him.
The next morning, as we were shaking the sleep from our heads, one of Scooter's roommates asked us if we would like to go sailing to the Channel Islands with him. Confused but overjoyed, we readily accepted, rushing around to kit ourselves out before clamboring into the car and speeding off to the Marina. In the car, we asked him how he came to have a yacht, at which point he explained that he was in the process of joining a sailing cooperative which owns several boats. In the interest of recruiting more members, the club hosts free cruises out to the Channel Islands on their small fleet.
We all climbed aboard the flagship, which was a 42 foot, elegantly-appointed Catalina. Marijana and I explored the cavernous interior, talking excitedly among ourselves about how our next adventure will be at sea. Within minutes of setting out, though, I wandered belowdecks and came back up feeling as though my stomach was trying to crawl out of my throat. Refusing to admit that I might be seasick, I tried not to concentrate on the rolling deck and my heaving gut, but the headache and the queasiness were overpowering. I was forced to make my way up toward the bow, where I laid down and was almost instantly better. My faith in our next adventure being on a boat, though, was thoroughly shaken, in spite of the fact that Marijana had taken quickly to it and was, quite readily, at the helm and learning the ropes.
As I reclined on the foredeck, yawning and belching uncontrollably, we spotted a seal with one flipper in the air, perhaps 20 yards away. At first, we thought he was dead and possibly a combination of rigor mortis and bloating had put him in such an awkward position. However, after not too much time, he shifted around a little and appeared to notice us. This was, perhaps, more puzzling, because his fin stayed rigidly pointed skyward.
Besides the seal, though, there wasn't much more to the trip, other than a massive offshore drilling platform, a coastal refinery, and a naval base. I took a little solace in the fact that the other boat had to turn around because all the children on board had gotten ill. Low winds and concern for the other half of the fleet soon forced our return, too, much to the delight of my stomach.
As we made our way back in to the marina, we passed a fully restored tallship that we had also seen when we were heading out. We wondered aloud as to why someone would go to such great expense to restore such a huge and majestic ship, but refuse to hoist the sails. Perhaps the highlight of the trip, though, was the middle-aged couple in the inflatable dinghy. They zipped toward us, reclining sideways in their boat, only realizing how ridiculous they looked once they caught us pointing and laughing at them. The woman smiled and waved. The humorless husband, however, simply gunned the engine and sped past. We waited for a family with a massive yacht to leisurely pump out their waste, then docked back amidst the crowd of hustling pelicans, each eager to score a lunch of discarded baitfish.
After we had returned safely home, we relaxed for awhile. Not content to just sit our way through this trip, though, Marijana suggested we play a little more volleyball. Scooter readily agreed, but his roommates weren't in the mood. We headed beachward, tossed the ball around and joked for a bit, until we were joined by one of Scott's friends from school (Mitch, who is also a Washingtonian), at which point we channeled all of our energy into domination. I was paired off with Mitch and Marijana joined Scott. For the next hour or two, we toiled under a rapidly-descending sun and fought a ferocious breeze in a no-holds-barred 2x2 battle to the death.
I'd like to say that I was a gracious and kind loser, that I was humble even in defeat, but I can't. I'd have to lose to say that, and we were a born-and-bred ass-kicking machine, too good to lose. Well... we did spot the losers one game, but that was mostly to assuage their stinging pride. As the sun set on the beach, Mitch and I were crowned unrivaled champions. He ran home and we sauntered back to the car, exhausted from a full day's worth of adventures.
