Few surfing spots in the world can rival the iconic backdrop of Fort Point, where waves break beneath the towering Golden Gate Bridge. For those who’ve experienced it, the mix of urban scenery, natural beauty, and ocean power is unforgettable.
Back in 1993, the cultural backdrop was rich: Nirvana’s In Utero, Tribe Called Quest’s Midnight Marauders, and Pearl Jam’s Vs. dominated music charts. For a 16-year-old surfer from Sonoma County with a fresh driver’s license, these were the soundtrack to newfound freedom. Armed with parental permission and the keys to the family’s VW van, I rounded up a few friends for what was supposed to be a routine surf trip to Bodega Bay. But, as teenagers often do, we deviated from the plan.
Instead of heading to the local surf spot, we impulsively set our sights on Santa Cruz, enticed by its renowned waves. The decision to bypass Goat Rock for “The Lane” seemed obvious—after all, it was only a three-hour drive south. With gas prices at a mere $1.11 per gallon, we scraped together what little cash we had and hit the road.
Driving through Sonoma and Marin counties, we made a spontaneous stop at Fort Point. This legendary surf spot beneath the Golden Gate Bridge is known as much for its challenging waves as its eerie allure. Stories of surfers being swept out to the Farallon Islands by strong outgoing tides—and into shark-infested waters—were well-known. At the time, surf forecasts and cameras weren’t readily accessible, so the only way to assess the conditions was to see them in person.
That day, Fort Point wasn’t delivering. The waves were lackluster, so we decided to continue south. But the road trip took an unexpected turn when I was pulled over by a military police officer. It was my first speeding ticket, issued on federal property. The moment was humbling, to say the least.
Rattled and anxious about how to explain the ticket to my parents, we detoured to a nearby Pacifica beach for a quick surf session before heading home. A friend generously offered to pay the $50 fine, but I decided honesty was the best approach. I anticipated the fallout—either from a court notice in the mail or a spike in the family’s car insurance. To my surprise, the ticket, issued on federal property, was treated as a simple fine and never appeared on my record. My parents never found out.
Today, that ticket and the misadventure surrounding it have become a cherished family anecdote. It’s a reminder of youthful recklessness, life lessons, and the enduring magic of Fort Point. Beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, the waves—and the memories—remain timeless.
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