Andy, Tim, Poyner, Jeff, and I had something of a ritual when Summer rolled around. The parking situation sucked, half the time it was overcast as shit, and Andy got like 48 tickets in one month, but Scripps fucking ruled. The second I started listening to Tool this morning a smell of stale Corona and salt water permeated my senses. I was struck by an overwhelming sense of euphoria.
Scripps, during high tide, still to this day is my favorite place to skimboard in the entire world. On the north side of the pier you were miles away from the hustle and bustle of the la jolla shores tourism attack, and you could pretty much get away with anything for the most part. Shit, what didn't we do there?
Naked seemed to be a theme, drunk and sunburnt also got its fair share of face time. I watched Poyner's cousin break every bone in his ankle seconds after seeing the Pacific for the first time, on the first day he arrived from Middle Town, USA, and ended up spending his entire trip getting surgery after surgery to repair an ankle that we all told him was probably just sprained. We stopped at C JR.'s on the way home, while he puked from pain.
I've seen people arrested, almost drown, and on many occasions we were scared by summer jellies. But nothing conjures up memories of such youthful enthusiasm as those days spent recklessly abusing our Southern Californian birth rights. What a great thing to remember when it's 10 degrees out, and you haven't seen the pacific in a year. Oh yeah, Brooklyn Decker holding a camera.
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