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This column is about the surf road trip, a rite like circumcision in Judaism, baptism in Christianity, or paddling in fraternities.

On tourist trips, one admires the architecture, takes pictures of monuments and buys souvenirs. It’s a passive experience during which the admirer, as the subject, draws a distinction between the self and the object of admiration.

In the surf trip, however, the self is actively engaged within the environment. Like the Japanese tea ceremony, every stage of the surf road trip comes together as a cohesive whole, with one part flowing to the next.

Roughly 97.3 percent of the surf trip is spent not surfing (e.g. getting from one place to another and setting up shop). Once in the water, you spend the time between sets talking. As a result, people are the essence of the surf trip – the company determines the discourse.

When my older brother and I take day trips to SoCo (South Orange County), the conversations revolve around when I plan to quit being a screwup and get my act together.

And last year, while on a 12-day surf expedition in Japan with Englishwoman Sophie Crocker, Japanese natives Shinya Asano and Hayato Chingchong, and Asian-Australian Thomas “Tom” Baer, the five of us really opened up to each other. For instance, Baer, who’s usually afraid of letting people in, realized that we have to risk being hurt if we want to be loved. Your surfing buddies, known as “bras,” are the drawbridges across the “too-cool-for-school” moat. A surf trip isn’t complete until you’ve had a good cry.

This past spring break, I took a trip to SanDo (San Diego) and B. JaCa (Baja, California) with associate Brandon Tripp. Brandon was the perfect surf mate, since we’ve had 14 years of history that we could discuss during the lulls, like that time in high school after senior prom when he made out with my date (dude, Brando, did you have to go at it while I was asleep ... in the same room?) or that time in college when I threw a rager at my Saxon dorm and the RAs rolled me for alcohol possession as Brandon tried to sneak out the back window until he got caught by another RA (dude, Brando, way to get my back).

Since the roof racks got stolen, we lay the boards across the passenger seat.

Because the tape player in Brandon’s maroon ’89 Cutlass Calais didn’t technically work, we listened to FM radio.

The song of the trip was Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.” Though it played every hour (thank you, Clear Channel Communications, Inc.), we sang it out loud every time. We were youthful, rebellious and angst-ridden, and Clarkson understood. It was like 1990’s “Pump Up the Volume,” in which Christian Slater runs a pirate radio station that speaks to the teenagers while enflaming parents and squares alike.

Out on the ocean, the waves were average but fun. We got hassled at the border coming back because the border patrol thought two unkempt college surfers coming back from Baja were the perfect front for drug running. I wanted to tell the Five-O to back off because our “high” was on the straight, but I sat submissively in the backseat while they searched the trunk.

But the trip was a success. There was a lot of whining from me ... about waves, women, the past, the future, and the recent dearth of Christian Slater movies. But Brandon listened like he had a thousand times before – my bra lends support.

But our respective responsibilities waited for us back home. The surf road trip is a recess from the world, a chance to think and talk without having to act. An eternal vacation is suspended animation. As much as I complain, I want to keep moving forward, but I need these moments to take stock.

As Brandon dropped me off at home, I gave the man a firm handshake. We’d get a drink with the crew next weekend or something.

For now, I’ve got to quit being a screwup and get my act together.

When I grow up, I’ll be an astronaut-fireman and shoot machine guns. Pump up the Christian Slater at hleano@media.ucla.edu.