Tom Mahony Author/Surfer
My buddies and I used to laugh at the older guys who stretched before paddling out. Now, a couple of decades later, I’m that stretch guy.
Beck had never seriously considered his mortality until that moment. He felt the cold metal against his neck and smelled the feral funk of this drunken shithead, and he thought about her and would they ever meet again.
Evan longed for a wave, eager to surf near Gordon, to remedy recent shortcomings, to show that, at least in the water, they were equals. Respect in the water triggered respect on land.
Warning signs seem more a product of our litigious culture, which gives us helpful reminders (Warning: coffee is hot, knives are sharp, urinal not for drinking). Are warnings about cold water, wind, and distant bluff erosion really necessary?
Alright, so self-employment is no surf-panacea. It’s kind of a pain in the ass. But if you can pull it off, self-employment is the perfect way to make a living while maximizing time in the ocean.
What’s with the sinister wetsuit names? There’s the Psycho, Psycho 2, and finally the Psychofreak, the Mutant and the Superfreak. The more threatening the name, the warmer the wetsuit.
There’s only one occasion when I need a watch: while surfing before a meeting or another time-sensitive obligation. It can be tricky.
A surf, no matter how marginal, would clear his head. Bury the bullshit. Nobody could tell him how to ride waves.
We were 15 when Smitty’s dad took us on our first Baja trip. For weeks leading up to it, we jabbered about what to expect. None of us had a clue.
There’s a latitudinal smuggery in West Coast surfing: the higher the latitude, the more smug the surfer is toward those further south.
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