Santa Cruz

I heard Santa Cruz before I saw it: the clack and shriek of the Giant Dipper, a wooden roller coaster that’s been running since 1924, carried on the wind across the sand. Lia was already grinning. This is a town that has decided, more or less permanently, to be about fifteen years old, and I mean that as the highest compliment. It’s a beach and a boardwalk and a surf break and a forest, all stacked within a few kilometres of each other, and the whole thing hums with a kind of salt-crusted, unbothered joy.

The Boardwalk

We went straight for it. The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk is the last of the old West Coast seaside amusement parks, and the Giant Dipper is its heart, a white wooden lattice you can hear groaning as the cars go over. We rode it twice. The first time Lia screamed the whole way; the second time she just laughed, which was somehow worse for me. Afterwards we ate corn dogs on the sand with our ears still ringing, watching kids drip melting ice cream and the carousel horses go round with their chipped painted manes. It is gloriously, unashamedly tacky, and I loved every minute.

Steamer Lane and the point

West of the wharf, the coast turns to low cliffs, and this is surf country of the serious kind. At Steamer Lane the swell wraps around the point and the surfers sit out there in the cold for hours, dark shapes on the grey water. There’s a tiny Surfing Museum in the old lighthouse on the point, and we spent a happy half hour among the battered old boards and the story of how the sport washed up here. Then we just sat on the cliff and watched. Every so often someone caught a wave and rode it in long and clean, and a little cluster of watchers on the rail would make an approving noise, and Lia would clap.

Up into the redwoods

What surprised me most is how fast the town gives way to forest. We drove maybe twenty minutes inland to Henry Cowell Redwoods, and suddenly the light went green and cathedral-quiet and the temperature dropped ten degrees. The old-growth loop takes you past coast redwoods a thousand years old and wide enough that Lia and I couldn’t join hands around one. After the noise of the boardwalk the hush felt almost physical, a pressure on the ears. We walked slowly, necks craned, and didn’t talk much. You can ride an old steam train up through these woods too, which felt very Santa Cruz: even the forest comes with a fairground ride.

Getting There

Santa Cruz sits at the north end of Monterey Bay, about 75 minutes south of San Francisco over Highway 17, a twisting road through the mountains that locals treat as a sport. From San Jose it’s half an hour over the same hill. There’s no useful train; drive, and give yourself margin on Highway 17 in bad weather. Park once near the beach and do the rest on foot or a short hop inland to the trees.