To Live And Die In Southern California
How can one place mean so many different things to the same person?
Grant Stilp
I grew up in Oregon’s green and wet Willamette Valley. Not much to do in my small town except play sports or go to the skatepark—and I did both. Southern California was a faraway land of whimsy and magic that only existed in skate videos. I arrived young and hopeful and hit the streets of Riverside running. It was everything I had expected and more: concrete everywhere, perfect weather, and tons of talented skateboarders. It was dirty, weird, and crazy. I never spent much time pent up inside the fences of the Christian college that brought me here.
An innocent white boy skating through the sketchiness I encountered with naivety, charisma, and a little dumb luck, I found myself in places I probably shouldn’t have been. I found drugs, skateboarding, grindcore music, and everything that rejected the polished suburban expectations I was raised with. Driving fast and listening to Black Sabbath in my little truck, I had never seen so many lanes on a freeway.
The dry heat was brutal and beautiful. Sweat-filled skate sessions left me hitting the ground hard and getting up feeling alive. I knocked out my tooth trying a boardslide and went viral. I took LSD and hiked to the top of mountains. I took LSD and discovered the depths of hell—and eventually sobriety. I discovered the desert, Joshua Tree, and rock climbing. When my truck broke down, I bought a van. I pooled my Christmas money with a friend and bought all the gear we could at REI, slept in the van, and climbed to our hearts’ content, alone in the desert. I was learning what it meant to live a real, raw life: heartbreak, hardship, loneliness, friendship. Testing myself and pushing the limits. Reaching the mountaintop and being slammed to the valley floor. Encountering God and learning to trust in Him.
Southern California was my oyster, and I drank my fill of its salty juice. Skateboarding, partying, surfing, rock climbing, freedom. Life at a lightning pace. It was the perfect place for a boy to grow into a man. But all good things must come to an end. I was blackout drunk on a full cup of Southern California fun, only to wake up dazed and confused in the post-college hangover.
My perspective has changed and shifted drastically since I moved here. I excelled in engineering school, but I can’t sit still. Can I do it for 40 hours a week? I chose this path for the money, but now I couldn’t care less about money. I initially came to Southern California to escape the Christian faith I was raised in, but through my struggles, I found a relationship with Jesus to be life-giving and fulfilling. I had structured my entire life around having as much fun as possible but was now faced with the reality of adulthood: work, bills, and everything else that kills your stoke.
Everyone in North San Diego County seems to have so much money. I hate it here. I got myself a “real” job, sitting at a desk all day. I have more money than I know what to do with. I can buy climbing gear, skateboards, and all the gas I want. I spend way too much money on gas. My car becomes my home, and my bed is just a place to sleep. I log hours grinding through traffic. When will it end? Surf. Work. Climbing gym. Sleep. Repeat. I thought this was what I wanted. Where did it all go wrong? And why are there so many people at the beach?
Everyone knows someone in the skate industry, yet no one seems to want to be my friend. I’m back in the suburban lifestyle I once ran from: safety, security, traffic, money, and planning for the future. The honeymoon phase is over, and I’ve realized Southern California is a cruel mistress. I escape to the mountains to clear my head. I’ve pulled off some incredible climbs in the Eastern Sierras—and in good style too, which is surprising since I live at sea level. I was impressed with myself, but it’s never enough. I return to my desk, the traffic, and the loneliness, wondering why I ever wanted to live here. I’m surfing and climbing better than I ever have, yet I feel worse. Getting a sick barrel or sending my project means nothing when I continue living a lifestyle I despise, surrounded by people I feel disconnected from.
Like a deceptive woman, the same things that once drew me to Southern California are now the things I’ve grown to despise: surf and skate culture, big cities, bigger freeways, and the anxiety-inducing fast pace of life. In my journey from boyhood to manhood, my priorities have changed, and it’s time to move on to something simpler. Somewhere I can work a manual labor job and be involved in my community. A place where I can ride my bike around town and own a little property. I want to stay active, chase the things I love, and teach my kids to do the same. Southern California lived up to every expectation I had for it, but it’s time to leave before I become disappointed.
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