The Snows of Hope Ranch Beach
The Snows of Hope Ranch Beach James N. Powell Originally published as a cover story in the Santa Barbara Independent. W hen I was a kid, any truly respectable stretch of coast in Santa Barbara, any reputable expanse of sand with a good name and a suitably high opinion of itself, began to attract its own elite coterie of surf bums. Suddenly the waters off points such as Miramar, reefs such as Hammond’s, coves such as Campus, and river mouths such as Rincon found themselves a-bob with blond-haired boys astride surfboards, awaiting waves. At one secluded beach, where vast lawns and orchards aflutter with butterflies basked beside the sea, and where the waves swelled and peeled translucently over the summer sandbars, a metaphysically inclined cult of surf bums emerged. The core members of our tribe were, beside myself: Whooper (Don Robertson), The Goose (Jim Hanson), Modoc (Mick Moffet), Chaddy (Andy Chapman), The Hog (Steve Neal), The Ace (...