I'm not really sure why its never happened. I've spent quite a few summers surfing with Dad in Baja, and Tom has gone on a couple of trips with him to Central America, but for some reason, the three of us had never gone on a surf trip together. We've tried to organize them in the past, but for some reason something always seems to interfere with our plans. Part of it might be that our schedules have been so diverse over the years. Or it could go much deeper than that. It’s true we’vie led pretty separate lives. Maybe we've yet to break the proverbial barrier of unfamiliarity that makes it easier for people to share intimate times together on the road. Whatever the case, I figured that it was time to do something about it.

I knew it was going to take some serious negotiating on my part. I figured Dad probably wouldn't mind going on a trip together, but at the time, he seemed pretty tucked into his idyllic lifestyle in Cabo. Luring him away from 80-degree water and uncrowded waves would take some finesse. As for Tom, for one reason or another, the whole process of getting to make a decision about doing something is like pulling teeth. He’d be the first to admit it. When I eventually proposed the idea of a trip to them, they both said they wouldn't miss it for the world. Whether or not we'd all show up to the airport with tickets in hand was another story all together.

Where to go? We talked it over, and when Tom said he was set to compete in the Master's championships in France, we figured that going to Europe wouldn't be a bad idea. It would give Dad a chance to visit his French grandchildren and to see the place where his eldest son had spent so much of his life. It would also be a chance for him to watch Tom compete. The only time Dad had ever even caught a glimpse of Tom competing was at the 1986 Op Pro. Dad got caught in the middle of a sand fight at the foot of the Huntington Beach pier only to escape just before a riot broke out. Not exactly what you would call an uplifting experience.

We also decided that we would visit Ireland. It's something Dad has always wanted to do, and since both sides of his family are originally from there, it would give us a good opportunity to trace our roots. Also, it wouldn't be a bad time to check out it's rumored potential for world-class surf. I couldn't believe it, but with our destination picked, it looked like it was actually going to happen. For the next three weeks, we would be in for some seriously overdue bonding and, with a little bit of Irish luck some perfect waves.

Throughout our first week in France, we were at the mercy of Europe's volatile mid-autumn weather pattern. It rained chats et chiens. As we huddled in the VIP tents at the Masters, we watched Tom provide his fellow competitors with a major case of dÈj‡ vu. He ripped the crap out of the stormy 6-8 foot surf at Lafitenia on a replica of “Black Beauty”, the 6’3” Merrick pintail on which he road to so much success on the way to his first world title. Tom abducted “Black Beauty II” from Quiksilver’s quiver of replicated boards that were being displayed during the contest’s opening ceremony. When the contest director’s found out what happened, they asked him to give it back so they could return it to their display in time for the contest. Tom obliged, but after explaining to them the inadequacy of his own equipment, they told him he could ride it in his heats. He surfed so well on the board that the contest directors ended up giving it to him at the end of the event.

For Dad, watching Tom surf in the Master’s would prove to be quite a contrast from his previous experience in Huntington. He was treated like the Pope. Living legends like Tom Carroll, Wayne Lynch, and Rabbit Bartholomew all wanted to take pictures with him and shake his hand. Not to mention we had front row seats and an endless supply of free beer and baguette sandwiches courtesy of Quiksilver.

When the weather finally cleared, we had a particularly memorable session up the road at Guethary. It wasn’t perfect surf, but it was 8 feet and empty. Tom was cruising on Dad’s trusty 9’0”. I was under-gunned on my toothpick of a 6’6”, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Dad caught some of his best waves of the trip, and that Tom and I were there to share the day with him. The three of us trading waves in a beautiful place like the Cote de Basque was exactly the reason why we made the trip.

Dad is much more versed in the art of roughing it on surf trips than Tom and I. He’s sailed from Hawaii to California in "victory at sea conditions”, driven to Costa Rica and back in a rotted-out Caddy and, when he was 18, he was arrested in Texas for hitchhiking while trying to get home from Mexico. They threw the book at him and he spent the next two weeks in jail on a charge of vagrancy. On this trip, Dad got a taste of what kind of raveling Tom and I are used to: living out of a suitcase, hauling a quiver of boards through airport after airport, countless hours in a rental car. As it is for the rest of his generation of surfers, this was all completely foreign to him. The amount of airports we had to go through and the number of flights we took overwhelmed him. He tried to keep track, but I think he lost track after Charles De Gaulle International and airplane ride number six.

Throughout our adventure, Dad was forced to become familiar with the people who work at the airport metal detectors. Without fail, every time he walked through a detector, he would set off an alarm. And each time this happened, one of the airport staff would ask him in a very rude manner, to step aside and empty his pockets. And every time, after emptying every last foreign coin from his pockets, no one could determine what was tripping the alarm. After about the 20th time of going through this whole routine, Dad had to laugh. He reckoned, and I think most would concur, that the people that work on those x-ray machines are some of the most unpleasant on the planet. After a successful French campaign, it was of to Ireland. Dad said he just wanted to get over there and take a walk around, just to take in the whole vibe of the place. As expected, Ireland proved to have a lot of vibe to take in. We toured 12th century castles and stone dwellings that dated back to 2,000 years before Christ. As we drove through the magical countryside where poet W.B. Yeats drew much of his inspiration you could almost see leprechauns coming towards you out of the forest. Then there’s the Irish pub. James Joyce put it best when he wrote, “It would be quite a puzzle to cross Ireland without running into a pub.” It’s the gathering place, where young and old, rich and poor come together as one to socialize, listen to music and wet their whistles on a fine pint of Guinness. As expected of good Irish lads, we visited firsthand a few of these pubs and wet our whistles did we ever.

We hooked up with local surf shop proprietor Richie Fitzgerald and friend Matt Briton who offered to show us around to a few spots. Northwest Ireland is the first place in Europe that the Atlantic’s deep low-pressure system’s hit landfall, and as you can imagine, it gets lots of swell. Lots of swell. Tom and I surfed a pretty impressive left reef break, similar to Big rock in San Diego, that was 8 to 10 feet and offshore. We caught a couple of waves but we were mostly humbled as we sat on the shouldered and looked dumbfounded into the vortex of it’s gaping barrel. We saw another left breaking at about 25 feet that was comparable to any big wave in the world. All we needed to ride it was a Jet Ski and a larger pair of testicles.

“Looks icy”, Dad remarked as we were checking the surf one day. He mentioned before we left California that he wasn’t too sure if he’d surf in Ireland-he been in Latin America too long to be prepared for water temperatures like this. Cold water for him these days is a balmy 70 degrees. But the sun was out, the swell had mellowed, and there was some nice little 3-to-4 foot peaks coming through. After some contemplation, we ended up paddling out together and sharing a few waves. The waves weren’t anything that special, but as we were struggling out of our booties, I told Dad that at least he can say that he got to surf in Ireland. “Yeah,” he replied, “They can never take that away from me.

” You could say that our surf trip was successful because we found great surf, but that won’t be what I’ll remember most. As our trip was coming to an end and we were preparing for our journey home, Richie and Matt surprised us with a parting gift: a framed photo of the three of us taken during our stay. Two aspects of this photo illustrate the lasting impression I’ll take with me from our time in Europe: the glow on our smiling faces and the quote our new Irish friends had inscribed, “ Only Once a Stranger, Forever Friends”. The photo is now hanging on my wall at home and whenever I look at it, it reminds me of the relationship between Dad, Tom, and myself and how it has evolved. For three lifelong surfers in the same family to have never gone on a surf trip together proves that we haven’t been as close as some families. What I’ll remember most about our trip is how it brought the three of us together and made us closer than we’ve ever been.