By Jeff Jones, Voice Staff Reporter

When the winter storms are stacked up against the West Coast, it’s easy to see why so many locals get excited. They know there’s bound to be a high surf warning sandwiched somewhere in time between the clouds.

Certainly, surfers follow the status of the swells along with beachfront homeowners, weather reporters and almost anyone affected by the whims of the sea.

But it’s not only avid wave riders who follow endless summers in wetsuit weather. The beaches are packed with spectators oohing, aahing and capturing Big Wave moments through a camera, video lens or binoculars.

And though surfers were once called beach bums, their status has indeed evolved after some 40 years in the public eye. All of us on the South Coast now have at least a passing acquaintance with a surfing teacher, surfing neighbor, surfing clergyman or surfing business owner.

Here at the Valley Voice, our publisher and staff have done more than just embrace the good tides and good vibes of the surfing lifestyle. Each month, in the surroundings of the newspaper, the Valley Voice’s sister publication, BlueEdge Magazine, is put together.

It features profiles and stories from and about the surfing community, in which writers may also gauge the volatile climate of ongoing environmental issues, or recommend a hot new CD.

Advertisers may be in the midst of breaking out a new line of beachwear or beer. At the same time, they might remind us to help ease the pain on the planet simply by sweeping up and recycling yard clippings.

Still, the travelogues bring some of the biggest smiles to editors and readers alike. Although the waves may be similar in shape and size from one spot to another, the "getting there" will always be different.

And as residents of the Good Land can attest, you don’t have to be a skier to enjoy Big Bear, a fishing enthusiast to relax at Lake Cachuma, or a surfer to join a safari to Mexico.

I, for one, have been fortunate enough to do all three. And while I’ve done my level best to recreate with the rest of the pack in a given setting, I must admit that I don’t know if I’m more dangerous to others in the snow or the ocean.

One thing is certain - it’s hard to stop when you lack the skill to snowplow. Or the ability to steer clear of the surfers paddling out, when you take a Banzai approach to catching a wave.

My short-lived Big Wave career ended with too close a call to a barnacled piling that was holding up Haskell’s pier, near my beloved Dos Pueblos High School.

So when a friend and classmate asked me to join him in a summer excursion south of the border, with promises of very Small Wave beach breaks, I was happy to join in.

Basically, we only had to have the cash for food and gas. Chris owned a spacious Country Squire station wagon with fold-down seats in the back and better rates than any old Motel 6 could offer.

There were times, however, when I wished Tom Bodette were there "to keep the light on," especially driving the night-time version of Mexico’s highway-to-hell through the desert.

I will never forget the first motorcycle I encountered coming in the opposite direction. On a long rolling stretch of a (at last) well-paved road, the single headlight was at first a blip in the distance.

The biker soon dipped down into a shallow valley, came up a crest and disappeared once again. In minutes, only one more hill remained. Strangely, we were destined to arrive at the top simultaneously.

And what a wake-up call that was. I almost came out of my skin when a humongous 18-wheeler rocketed past us with one solitary headlight! Several hours later, and with little fanfare, we arrived in Mazatlan.

The waves rolled up the wide sandy beaches, small and gentle enough for even most novice surfer to handle. But Chris, accustomed to cutting across the face of much more ominous offers from King Neptune, talked me into traveling farther south.

Our endless summer almost ended in a remote region near San Blas. Chris was really set on checking out a legendary bay called Stoner’s Point. When the break was right, surf lore had it, two people could pass and smoke a rolled joint all the way to shore, the ride was so long.

What we didn’t count on was making a wrong turn in the jungle and coming to a makeshift tortoise factory of the deep-sea turtle kind. In the middle of harvesting a bounty of illegal meat, the workers drew pistols when we surprised them in their camp.

And to think, I was the one extolling the "getting there" part of the travelogue.

But truth be told, surfers still encounter many surprises near and far. Being genuine ambassadors of goodwill, they always seem to do fine.

The following pages of this year’s Surfing Supplement are a testimony to that benevolent spirit. We surfers have always been a lot more than beach bums, after all.