Ranch. Epic.

I was never happier to be someone’s lift when Monty called and told me Peter was looking for a ride up to the ever elusive Harris Ranch. I threw my TPM’s on and was out the door within 5 minutes of hanging up the phone. Peter could of been hauling illegal contraband that would of put us away for many years and I still would have said, “when do we go?”. Thankfully the only contraband Peter came with was his boards, a eukalale and a jabber that would rival lil’ wayne.
After a sound sleep in the back of trusty ol’ Blanca and a rocket fuel cup of coffee, we jumped in the vanagon and started checking the surf. Driving around Harris Ranch is like stepping back 100 years in time, giving one a glimpse of how amazing California was before it became the land of smog and traffic and was a rugged rancher and farmer’s paradise.
Soaring green grass hills and lazy Long Horn and Hereford cattle chewing their cudd were the only distractions as we pulled into Big Drakes. The next few hours of surf were simply amazing and none of us wipe the smiles off our faces the entire time.
-Epic bra.

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