DeLaveaga Disc History

DeLaveaga Disc Golf Course was created to host the World Disc Championships in 1984. The course was designed by Disc Golf Hall of Famer Tom Schot, who took full advantage of the environment, incorporating the numerous trees, ravines and rolling hills of the land into one of the most celebrated courses in disc golf history.

Catrina Ulibarri putts on the 14th hole at DeLaveaga Disc Golf Course.

Originally only 18 holes, the course now has 28 permanent holes, with a 29th hole still used in tournament play. Every single hole holds its own against some of the most difficult and unique in the world, making for a challenging yet enjoyable experience for players of all skill levels.

Fast Greens, Steep Slopes and Tree Roots

DeLaveaga is not an easy disc golf course. It’s well known for its fast greens, partly because every basket seems to be surrounded by a slope, and that slope is often steep. The area around the basket is rarely surrounded by grass or anything else that could slow a disc down if it gets on its edge and begins to roll. There are often unpredictable tree roots and rock crags jutting out of the ground just waiting to turn your round into a disaster.

It’s not just the greens that make DeLaveaga tricky, either. Many holes have canyons or ravines just off the fairway–or even in the fairway–with ample opportunity to swallow up an errant disc or a shot that ricochets off one of the many trees. Players must avoid these pitfalls to score well, so precise shooting is a must at DeLaveaga. Many a disc golf player has had their first bad “poison oak experience” trying to track down a disc that has gone offline here.

Paul McBeth, 2012 PDGA World Champion, putts at the 2012 Master’s Cup.

Over the years, trees have grown and trees have fallen, altering the course. New teepads and basket positions have also been put in. Most of the holes have several different basket positions, which are changed throughout the year to keep the course fresh and interesting.

Master’s Cup

Every year, the DeLaveaga Disc Golf Course hosts two large tournaments that are sanctioned by disc golf’s governing body, the Professional Disc Golf Association. DeLa hosts the Faultline Classic every fall and brings in some of the top pros around, but the largest draw is the Master’s Cup.

The Master’s Cup is one of the biggest tournaments in all of disc golf. Every spring it attracts the top pros from all over the world. Often times, players from countries such as Sweden, Finland, Denmark, France, Japan and several more are represented in the lineup.

Winning the Master’s Cup earns a player a lot of respect in the disc golf world, as it is seen as one of the world’s most difficult tournaments. There are courses and tournaments that offer longer holes and more wind to gauge, but few require as many tight, technical shots.

Winning the Master’s Cup requires a player to overcome a few bad breaks and a lot of pressure. There are often hundreds of dollars separating strokes at the final tally, and for most of the competitors, that’s a lot of money.

By the end of the tournament, there is always a gallery, sometimes with 100-plus players and fans following the action and this year’s tourney will be no exception.

The 2013 Master’s Cup will be hosted at DeLaveaga Disc Golf Course from Friday through Sunday, April 26-28. Admission and parking are free.

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Early view of the moon in Santa Cruz.

The view of the moon on the Westside can be almost as nice as the view of the sunsets. Sometimes we just forget to look up and notice it in the middle of the day or early evening.

Dogs and humans alike love the Santa Cruz beaches

There are several local dog friendly beaches and parks in Santa Cruz. One of the best can be found on the Westside.

Westside surfing action in Santa Cruz.

Some of the best views of local surfers are on West Cliff Dr., especially if you know the good spots.

The plants like catching some rays in Santa Cruz too.

The ice plants are considered prime parking for local beach cruisers.

Houses on West Cliff Dr. cast shadows on the cliffs.

The sun ducks behind houses on West Cliff Dr., casting shadows on the cliffs.

The sun glimmers off a plan on the Westside.

The last couple rays of sunshine disappearing from John St.

Birds relaxing at Natural Bridges State Beach, Santa Cruz, CA

Great place to grabs some sun but the locals can be pretty protective of their favorite spots.

Ocean view with a fence. Santa Cruz, CA.

Behind this fence line is a beautiful view. Surprisingly, this is the sturdier part of this fence.

Couldn’t resist a shadow self-portrait.

Shadows always look awesome on this wall. I was preparing to duel as this photo was taken.

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I’ve learned a lot. But this is not about me. This is about what you need to do to become an internet rock star. Let’s get started.

Your Guide to Riding the Social Media Unicorn to the Rainbow of Online Success

1. Success rests in numbered lists. Or better yet, bullet points. I don’t know why, it just is. If your blog post, news article or infographic doesn’t tell me the seven things I can do right now in order to have a top 10 list that addresses every problem of the human condition, you won’t make the cut. According to Yahoo, all of these lists start and end with becoming a paralegal or dental assistant.

2. Infographics, infographics, infographics! It’s no longer enough to write smart, engaging content that actually informs the reader and comes from a trusted source. If it’s not pretty, the internet don’t want it! We want cartoonish fonts, rainbow fruit-flavored colors and little to no actual information. If you can dress it up enough, we’ll read anything and feel good about just having read something.

3. Grammar and spelling. You dont want nothing to do with either of these terrifying words. Trust me, you defiantly dont.

4. Use “whilst” instead of “while”. Using antiquated language is the best way to establish yourself as a modern, technologically savvy internet user, even if it’s considered outdated by 18th century standards.

5. Bacon. Lots of it. Reference it often and add it to everything. Cran-bacon is on the verge of becoming the next superfood, combining Old World fruit fusion with modern day artery blocking. Don’t miss the train.

6. Pictures of your cat/dog/hamster/llama/squirrel/ferret doing anything at all. The more fur the better. Better yet if you dress it up like a human. Especially if you’re single and/or lonely.

7. When you get into an argument or disagreement with someone in the real world, be sure to share it in a vague and directionless fashion on social media. Something like, “Some people just don’t know how to be a true friend.” typically works. People will automatically know what you’re talking about and rush to your side for support.

8. If you’re feeling particularly wound up about some political issue, post your views on Facebook. Your online friends were probably waiting for some guidance on the issue. It’s a common misconception that people will think you’re a total whackjob for doing this. Quite the contrary: your friends appreciate the input and will often change their moral, ethical or political stance based on your suggestions.

9. For online writing, never write more than 300 words. Ever. No one reads that far. You should double space and use one sentence paragraphs. Ideally, you want a slew of social media sharing icons (see example to the left) that intrude upon the text so that your reader can’t actually read all of the content. This is the best way to ensure that no one reads anything you write, but everyone will know it’s there. Be like water.

10. Treat your twitter account like it’s a private text message to your closest friends, especially if you’re a famous athlete with thousands of followers. People really appreciate honesty, even if it means you’re honestly a dolt. If you do something really foolish, just delete your account and it all goes away as though you never even said it.

11. You must constantly share inspirational quotes. It doesn’t matter if they apply, what they mean or even if you subscribe to the idea behind them. If someone said it, you should share it. In fact, you should copy and paste this as a tweet right now. But you can’t because it’s far too long. Instead, link your facebook page to your twitter account so that your twitter followers only see half of your … fb.me/78ly,7380_g3h0+h340h_jehgu3983h9

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At this point, I had two roommates. Balthazar, a friend I had known since third grade, had been living with me after returning from a year abroad. The other was Janelle, a friend from high school who had needed a place to stay in Santa Cruz. I didn’t hesitate to rent her our closet and couch for $100 a month. (This may seem strange to renters in larger communities, but I have it on good authority that the same closet now rents for $650 and doesn’t include utilities).

Looking back, this is something that made me realize Santa Cruz was the right place for me. People help each other out here. There’s a true sense of community. (Couch surfing blog to come).

Balthazar and I were juggling student life, part-time work and newfound freedom and never considered how the addition of Janelle might affect our living situation. Here was the basic effect: she fit in seamlessly and things got much cleaner and more organized. We probably should have been paying her instead of charging her anything. Her closet was the cleanest thing in the apartment.

Balthazar, Janelle and I became close as we began to taste life for the first time. I’m still not sure how the routine began, but when the last of the three of us got home for the night, we would play Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” and dance around.

One of my favorite memories is walking in the door after a long day of work. Balthazar was crouched down at the CD player–he had 100 disc changer which fueled our parties for years–and he hit play right as I walked in. I loosened my tie and all three of us immediately went into an elbow-swinging, circular do-se-do to “On the Road Again”.

It was a moment that signified our work day being over, a relatively new concept to all of us. It became our song. To this day, I guarantee that all three of us think of those times whenever that song comes on at a grocery store, coffee shop, TV commercial or the radio. It happened to me just the other day.

Our upstairs neighbors also had a song.

It was the UB40 hit, “Red, Red Wine” (written by the great Neil Diamond, by the way). To be honest, we liked it almost as much and would sometimes play it ourselves. They never played “On the Road Again”.

What was disturbing was the behavior that accompanied their song. I can only describe it, as both roommates have attested to, as a gorilla moving heavy furniture with one hand and vacuuming with the other, all while dancing to the music.

It was like clockwork. Every single night. A mystique began to build around our neighbors with their elusive nature, attention to cleanliness, ability to move couches and love of reggae pop.

Then one night, the mystique disappeared.

I awoke to the sound of people running up the stairs that led to their apartment. The guests were in a hurry, stomped loudly and there were a lot of them. My brain fired into emergency mode as I woke up midway into a full sprint down the hallway. As I started to get my bearings, I realized I was running down the hallway of a small apartment and unsure of where I was going.

Our curtains were showered in flickering red from police lights–there were no sirens–and I slammed to a halt on our carpet. I heard toilets from upstairs flushing rapidly, pounding on doors, voices yelling. Standing in place I looked around our apartment for something the police might be there to bust us for, as though they were at my own door. The only thing I could come up with was our cat, [name redacted for decency purposes], who was expressly forbidden in the terms of the rental agreement.

Our neighbor’s toilet continued to flush as the pounding on the door got louder. I peeked out the blinds to see several cop cars with lights flashing parked in front of our four-apartment complex. I heard the police enter upstairs, but it was not terribly loud. The whole incident was rather calm and over quickly once they got inside, something I cannot say for the UB40 ritual.

After that, we never heard anything from the upstairs apartment. Although a plumber was spending a lot of time there over the next few days. The writing was on the wall and in the sewage system: it was time to look for a new place.

The post The Rental Chronicles: Upstairs Neighbors appeared first on Positively Santa Cruz.

Photo: Ryan Harms

4:50 p.m. – Westvleteren is a quadrupel style beer produced by a remote abbey in Belgium. It is considered by many beer aficionados to be the finest beer in the world.

It is generally only available in Belgium directly from the abbey and only in small quantities. However, they are trying to raise money for repairs to the abbey and have distributed ~2500 six pack gift packs to the US, on sale today for $85 each.

They will assuredly sell out more or less immediately. Kind of a once in a lifetime event for those of us too broke to travel to Belgium.

5:25 p.m. - Update: the line has been cut off as all twenty-nine gift packs have been accounted for. T-minus two hours forty one minutes to go. Mood of the crowd (those of us with a guaranteed purchase, at least): jovial, slightly giddy, expectant. Currently quaffing an Allegash White Ale, a fine traditional wit-style beer.

6:10 p.m. - Update: two hours to go. I just spoke to Vince and Will, the two gentlemen at the very start of the line. They arrived at about 2PM.

“This is pretty much a once in a lifetime opportunity,” said Vince. “I’ve had the Westvleteren VIII, and it was definitely the best beer I’ve ever had. But it takes an Act of God to get. I’ve tried to travel to Belgium to buy some of this motherfucking beer, but they didn’t have it when I went. So I’m definitely stoked.”

“I was paranoid about missing out,” Will said.

The prized Westvleteren XII.   Photo: Ryan Harms

Good work, gentlemen. See you at the finish line!

6:45 p.m. – Update: Bit of a tough stretch. Fairly drunk on expensive, delicious Belgium beer, but still quite a ways to go.

Speaking to Maureen, a friendly woman directly behind me in line: Maureen, how did you end up here?

“It seemed like a thing to do, you know. I wasn’t able to find any still on sale in San Francisco.”

Will you drink yours immediately, Maureen?

“Nah, I’ll probably save it for the holidays when my boyfriend gets back from traveling on business. And for when I need to bribe people to help me move from Pacifica to San Mateo at end of January.”

Well considered, Maureen. Best of luck to you in your strategic drunkenness.

7:35 p.m. – Update: Thirty minutes to go. Down to the nitty gritty. Drunk. Kind of losing my mind. Tapping away the minutes like a prisoner. Did I bite off more than I can chew? Only time will tell. Next update will, God willing, be post-beer. Pray for me.

8:15 p.m. – Update: The promised land. Regretfully, I will not be tasting it immediately. But it is so beautiful. I look forward to sipping it gently, at opportune moments. Enjoy, and thank you for all following my saga.

The post Waiting for the World’s Best Beer, Westvleteren XII appeared first on Positively Santa Cruz.

The O’Neill Cold Water Classic is always the biggest surf contest of the year in Santa Cruz, but this time around it promises to be even bigger. Local legend Jack O’Neill started his wetsuit and surf business 60 years ago and the company is celebrating by upgrading the 2012 Coldwater to a World Title event.

Santa Cruz surf fans will be stoked as this means the top 34 surfers in the world will be showing up for a ten-day period this fall. Currently, SC doesn’t have a surfer on the World Tour, but O’Neill will surely be hoping one of their sponsored surfers, including John John Florence and Jordy Smith, will win the Cold Water.

Even if you’re not an avid follower of the “Dream Tour”, odds are high that 11-time world champion and perennial world’s sexiest person nominee Kelly Slater will be attending.

Steamer Lane is an amazing place to watch a surf contest. Standing on the cliffs provides a perfect view of the waves, contestants and the beautiful Monterey Bay.

For those people who are housebound or have to work on days the contest is running, O’Neill will be streaming the contest live on the internet. The waiting period for the contest is Nov. 1-11, hopefully just in time for some of our famous winter swells.

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It should be obvious that such a plan is in place–the art is everywhere in our town. It’s such a treat to live in a community that sees the value of art, both as economic development tool, as well as a a community-building resource.

It’s a pleasant reminder of the artistic commitment that we have made as a community, the number of artists we have here, and that we collectively realize the value of such resource.

Around Santa Cruz, it’s not often one sees electrical boxes that are typical in other towns: the green-gray eyesores that sit sadly in muted, drab tones on the side of city streets.

Our electrical boxes are painted colorfully, yield signs sit on slabs of pavement colored in sparkling rocks and sculptures are rotated throughout town.

For such a small town, we have access to a tremendous amount of art and culture and the support of local government, organizations and community makes this possible.

Reflecting on this made me research projects in other areas that are currently underway for the benefit of community. Here are two great examples.

The first comes from Estonia. Yes, that’s right, Estonia (technically the Republic of Estonia). Soon, they may be putting out the most computer literate grade schoolers in the world.

The Tiger Leap Foundation has started a program that will teach Estonian school children computer programming, starting as early as the first grade.

I was happy to see this article because being computer savvy is so clearly important in the future (read: the present). Making an educational commitment to that future is a brilliant move that really should be emulated by every community, in my opinion.

The second item comes from Kalamazoo, Michigan. Many of the students at Kalamazoo high schools cannot afford college, or at least they couldn’t until something known as the Kalamazoo Promise.

Thanks to an anonymous donor, high school graduates in Kalamazoo are getting some help if they go to a local college or university. If students have attended Kalamazoo schools from K-12, their entire tuition is paid for.

The donors view the generous gift as an investment in the community, one that they hope will improve the local economy and retain talented young academics. It’s a good example of how one person in a position to help a community can have a sustained positive impact.

In future posts, I will be taking a look at some of the people and organizations within our community that are working to make it a better place. Until then, remember to breathe and keep it positive

The post Some Uplifting News from Santa Cruz, Estonia and Kalamazoo appeared first on Positively Santa Cruz.

It’s not a secret that Santa Cruz presents same tricky driving situations for  tourists. Transplants and locals all know about the Fish Hook (avoid the left lane), the nonsense that goes on where Water St. meets Soquel Ave. and how confusing the one-ways by the Boardwalk are, as well as the circular streets near West Cliff.

The owner of the Circle Market told me recently that he designed an ad for his store that included a map of the area because people get rather confused around that part of town.

I try to be patient when I know a driver is out of their element here in Santa Cruz; it’s usually pretty obvious. I encountered such an individual over the summer, as we often do, trying to get (presumably) from downtown to the beach and/or Boardwalk.

The driver was ahead of me in a mini-van as we approached the intersection of Front St. and Pacific Ave., standard tricky territory for tourists. There’s no stop sign but there is a large, diagonal crosswalk, an opportunity for oncoming traffic to turn left or continue straight without stopping and beyond that, a confusing roundabout and our local version of Las Vegas level signage.

The driver was slowing to a potential stop at the crosswalk, which was without stop sign or pedestrian. An oncoming car continued without hesitation while another behind it slid into the left turn lane and stopped to wait for our newcomer.

The mini-van came to a complete stop, as I expected. The driver looked at the left turner, then in his rear view at me.

Now we were at an impasse. Nobody moved.

“Come on buddy, you can do it,” I said out loud. I was about to honk when he started moving. “Yes! That’s it!”

Then he quickly stopped again after five feet, which I also had to do. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t any reason to stop again except for his own self-doubt. I decided it was time to honk at him.

My earlier honk was going to be a friendly, Road Runner style meep-meep. But now we were entering a dangerous zone and I got frustrated. I gave the more angry version of the honk–a persistent and annoying buzz, the most intimidating noise that my Toyota Corolla can muster. I rolled my eyes and propped my left arm on the open driver’s side window as I waited for him to figure out that we were all waiting for him.

His window was also down and he chose to flip me off. It was a nice bird too: solid 90 degree technique on the arm bend, and it was the dirty one too; not the hard, fashionable variety. He had a fully-clenched granny fist with only the middle digit extended like a long, accusatory switch. It was a thing of beauty but it was a mistake nonetheless.

I believe he started to understand this as I burst into hysterical laughter in response to him flipping me off, which he clearly heard since both of our windows were down. I saw a pair of concerned eyes in his driver side mirror.

As a man, the last thing you want to hear in response to your own anger or aggression is sincere and outright laughter. Usually, it means the other person knows something you don’t. And I did.

I knew this was just the simple part of the equation, that the difficult part was yet to come. I knew that the sign in the picture to the left was the next complication for my fine, flustered friend.

He edged forward tentatively and I tried to give him space, knowing I had already made the situation more difficult.

He approached the yield sign of the roundabout gingerly, feeling it out as other cars quickly navigated their way through. He steered right as I cheered him on from my car and I thought he was going to be okay as he passed the second yield sign.

Then came the West Cliff Dr., Pacific Ave., Depot Park options and he got overwhelmed. To be fair, it’s three drastically different turning options in the space of about 40 feet. But again, no stop sign. This did not stop our mini-van driver from treating it as such.

He pulled to a stop inside of the roundabout, near the public parking turnout to Depot Park so as to add another complicating element to the intersection. I drove by (still laughing) and looked over at him. The driver threw up his arms as if to say, “I don’t know what to do!”

Don’t worry my friend, we know all too well

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I have to preface this by saying that this was a different time in my life. I was in my early twenties, making decent money and partying recklessly with my friends and coworkers at every opportunity. It was a foggy, classless time, peppered with embarrassing moments. As a full-fledged adult, you start to learn that it’s only acceptable to behave this way while dressed nicely, or at a friend’s barbecue.

Pitcher Night at the Avenue

This story is from “Pitcher Night” at the Avenue, roughly ten years ago. Pitcher Night was in the middle of the week (somewhere) and the entire staff where I worked would typically meet up, along with some friends and the inevitable local run-ins at the bar. During that time, it would be packed by 10 p.m.

Low-end beers were priced fantastically, I think $4 per pitcher. Pitchers did not come with a glass unless you requested one. Proper etiquette was to drink directly from the side of the pitcher. The pitchers were the smaller variety and you typically ended up wearing about half of it due to bumping into other people.

Foosball Versus the Germans

The Avenue had a Foosball table that didn’t get much use. We would tuck a small piece of cardboard  into the goal boxes that would catch the ball when someone scored and it meant you could play endlessly on a couple quarters.

I’ve always liked Foosball so I found myself playing quite a bit. Something fun happens when people line up for some Foosball. Focus gets heightened, movements get tense; people take it more serious than anything that has ever happened in the history of their lives. I was no different.

I had a Foosball table in my living room at the time and took great pleasure in utterly destroying my friends when I played. We had a house rule that if anyone got shutout 10-0, solo or as a team, you had to do 20 pushups. It became a sickness.

I lived with my girlfriend at the time and we believed ourselves to be unbeatable at mixed couples. We would seek out other couples to play against at neighborhood parties like some sort of table sport swingers. (Which probably explains the couple that seemed confused by our Foosball table and left abruptly).

To put it short, I was in my Foosball prime.

One night at the Avenue, there were a couple of young German guys playing. They were tall, fit and struck the ball solidly. They also had the marker of above average Foosers: good defense.

My father had warned me about the Germans. He had played a lot of Foos in the Air Force and told me that he and his buddy were top dogs that got worked over pretty good by some Germans once in a bar (it was the 1970′s).

I proposed a doubles challenge with the Germans against my friend and I. I’ve always felt doubles Foos was the truest, as there is a hand on every row of players. Singles can be won with speed and power, doubles requires finesse and teamwork.

It was late in the night when we lined up across from the Germans. Each of us had drank several pitchers at this point and were not done, as indicated by the beer on our shirts, pants, shoes and the floor.

I told them of how my father had been out-Foosed by the Germans in the Air Force. They laughed heartily at this, as though my father were a fool to even contemplate playing Germans at Foosball, which made me quite nervous. Was Foosball the German National Sport or something? (It’s not).

Things got off to a rocky start for both sides. None of us were playing well and the low score was relatively even. Part of it was the extreme drunkenness, part of it was the nerves of an official challenge. After all, this game had national and generational implications on the line, as well as $8 in beer.

We were all getting frustrated with our play, at which I point I called a timeout and brought both teams together. I proposed that our problem might be due to the fact that we were all extremely drunk, whereas our plastic players were not, and that we should catch them up by making them “chug”. The Germans agreed without hesitation.

We immediately began tipping our pitchers toward the mouths of our plastic players, drenching the table with MGD, PBR and other such delicacies. Within seconds, the table was covered in a half inch of beer and I could hear it trickling into the goalie box, drenching the cardboard. In spite of our erratic states, all four of us were meticulous in making sure that each individual Foosball “player” in our given quadrant got a proper chug.

I set my pitcher down on the edge of the table–a bad move at any bar–and took a moment to enjoy to spectacle of a Foosball table entirely soaked in beer. A bar back came by to collect pitchers and stopped to stare at the Foosball table, then at me. He was not happy.

“No pitchers on the table,” he said gruffly, collecting some empties and walking away.

After a thorough soaking of our players and the table, the game continued. All the players, real and imagined, felt reinvigorated. We were suddenly cracking the ball with impressive accuracy as it skidded across the table, sending beer shooting off the sides at every contact. The ball ricocheted into the corner, only to be swept back goalward by the tide of beer, fired up the middle, masterfully blocked and returned with the same vigor. To this day, it was one of the more enjoyable matches I’ve played.

A Graceful Finish

It was close, but we eventually got the better of the Germans. As we wiped beer from our eyes and foreheads, we shook hands and acknowledged the great match that we had just taken part in. My friend–several pitchers deep herself–had her eye on one of the German guys and moved in quickly as the game ended.

“Now you can tell your fahzer zat you beat ze Germans,” he said to me, smiling.

We all had a good laugh at this. My friend began forcefully making out with one of the Germans while the other one vomited on his way to the bathroom. I attempted to high five my partner, only to miss his hand entirely and dump half my pitcher on his shirt.

“Last Caaaaallllllll!”

Yeah, I’ll miss the Avenue

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