Anyone else feel kinda shaky? Illustration: Jonas Vogedes//WaveButler.surf
“Hi, I’m Greg, and I’m a surfaholic.”
“Hi, Greg,” the group cantillates, monotone. It’s my first surfer’s anonymous meeting, so I pull my gray Hurley hat low to my brow and sit in the back.
Greg continues, “I’m now six months dry, and I have you all to thank for it. I’ve regained my place as a dutiful partner, a present father, and a productive worker.” He doesn’t look much like a surfer. No long, sun-bleached hair. No flannel shirt. No corpo boardshorts. No Vans on his feet. But the leathery, deep grooves on his weathered face tell another story. And thank God, because his speech is putting me to sleep.
I start to zone out, and habitually, no, neurotically open my phone to check MagicSeaWeed. But there’s no more data. The app remains installed, with the hope that it will return. I open up Safari and begin to type in Surfline. Maybe a quick peek at the Jetty cam will lessen the jones. I think better, and saunter over to the hospitality table.
The snack bar is filled with milk-box cold brew coffee, coconut water, fresh fruit, and granola bars. The gentleman next to me reaches for the last coffee at the same time I do. Our hands touch, and awkwardly, a conversation is born.
Introductions are made, and he seems normal enough, which entices me to open the can of worms when I ask, “So what brings you here?”
The man looks past me, right through me, as he details his rock-bottom experience. “It was my daughter’s 10th birthday. We planned a party. Neighborhood kids over, bouncy house — the works.” He groans, the look in his eyes half wistful, half empty.
“I knew something was up when my friend’s wives and kids showed up, but they — the husbands — were nowhere to be found,” he said. Apparently they’d caught the summer south swell flu, and were cooling their fevers inside the barrels at the Jetty. “I told my wife I had to run out to get more chips for the party. The next thing I knew I was in the parking lot, and it was on.”
A single tear wells up in the pocket of his eye, but quickly retracts with the next memory. “One wave. That’s the lie I told myself. Before I knew it, the sun was on its way back down. I went home, stinking of my salty mistress. It was the last straw. My wife gave me an ultimatum — us or the ocean.” And that’s what brought him here.
He sighs again, and finally looks into my eyes — he’s laden with vulnerability. I’m at the precipice of the conversation. On every end of a trauma dump is the expectation of empathy. It’s my turn to share, or at least leave him with something in the way of solace.
I opt for the easy way out — time to make a move. I grab the last cold brew coffee and am halfway to the door when someone stops me.
“New guy, huh?” She’s a striking middle-aged woman, regal but firm. Her eyes, a deep blue as if belonging to the ocean, hold my gaze.
I weigh my options, airing on the side of humor. “I bet his friend’s miss ‘wet’ Greg,” I say, referring to the man who’s “six months dry” and still rambling at the front of the room.
No smile. She’s heard that one before, “It takes a lot of courage to come here… I didn’t get your name.” She’s definitely in charge. The moderator. I play ball.
“It’s nice to meet you, Nick. I’m Sandy,” she says.
Right, I think, of course that’s your name. My expression betrays me. Sensing my imminent exit, she cuts to it, “You know, it gets easier when you talk about it. What brings you here?”
She’s nice enough, so I concede. Afterall, I promised my girlfriend I’d at least scope out a meeting. “Relationship is on the fritz. I surf too much, even when I’m not in the water. Her words, not mine,” I say.
Sandy takes a quick look at me from head to toe. She’s analyzing. Something about her, that unyielding compassion in her deep-sea eyes breaks me. I ask for help.
She says something about identity. You are what you eat. That self help crap. But the three steps of the program ring through my head like the toll of a bell. Or maybe that’s the tinnitus.
- Change your clothes.
Ring!
- Delete your apps.
Riiiing!
- Sell your boards.
Rrriiinng!
The third time’s the charm. Like a half-functioning prototype of my former self, I surrender to her powers. She says something and motions towards the front of the room. I walk up to center stage, remove my hat, and run my fingers through my long hair — perhaps for the last time. And with a cold, purposeful erasure, it begins and ends all at once.
“Hi, I’m Nick, and I’m a surfaholic.”
“Hi, Nick.”
