Because this life ain’t too shabby. Photo: Steven Wilcox//Unsplash
A few days before the holiday season began, I walked down the beach at dusk. The water and the cliffs were coated in thick fog, the shore eerie and quiet. When I squinted, I could make out a handful of surfers dotting the various breaks we passed.
Maybe it was the way that the ocean kept disappearing and reappearing, or maybe it was the little terrier tromping gleefully in front of me — the dog I didn’t know I’d have a few years ago — but I entered into a sort of weird, out-of-body experience.
Running through my head was the tumult of the last half-decade or so. The hangover of COVID, quitting a job of 15 years, my then-girlfriend suddenly getting into school out West, packing up our apartment.
Moving on.
For both of us, the draw of relocating was to live and explore somewhere new. Selfishly I also saw the move as an opportunity I’d sought for a while: the chance to surf as much as possible in a place where riding waves is possible nearly every day.
I stared out at the ocean and was hit by all the things that changed over the last five years. I worked a few weird jobs before finding a few I enjoy. We got a dog. We got married. We went through stuff — some good, and some bad — like everyone else does on this spinning globe.
As we worry about some things and celebrate others, we often fail to see the dramatic changes that fold into our lives. Yet suddenly, these events glittered in the sand before me, right next to the tennis ball the dog dropped at my feet. What’s more, I began to see myriad different versions of myself at each surf break I passed.
I saw myself:
Walking down that very beach years ago, unsure of where to paddle out, unsure of where my life was going.
Loading the old Jeep in the pre-dawn darkness, flying eagerly to the beach for a swell but ultimately coming home frustrated after surfing like crap and getting intimidated.
Riding our landlord’s beat-up bike to my first sunset session, a kaleidoscope of color, and the sketchy ride home in the dark with no brakes.
Meeting a few surfers in the lineup who shared some insider info about the local landscape — secrets I’m flattered to be trusted with that I’ll never reveal.
Taking my now-wife out for a paddle and watching her get a few waves and become if not hooked, fairly stoked.
Surfing an odd right that rarely breaks, and getting a few glassy waves that, at the time, blew my mind so much I came home and wrote about them.
Riding a new board on a big day, then suddenly realizing I could barely pop up and that my back was seriously injured.
Surfing a few months later — with injury-adjusted volume — and having a complete revelatory moment when something clicked that has changed my surfing forever.
Exploring and trying to surf a new spot every day (ah, the beauty of being unemployed back then).
Getting skunked. Hey, it happens…and it’s the best way to set up a redemption session.
Hearing there was an eight-foot shark swimming just outside the lineup the entire time I was out there.
Finding a spot I love and hitting it every day for months, then years — getting locked in, improving, and most importantly, meeting some friendly locals who welcomed me (after they realized they couldn’t get rid of me).
Improvising on waves, as in music. Trying new things out. Realizing that my worst session now, was my best back at the start.
Riding new boards that have completely changed the way I surf, and even conceptualize riding waves — both thoughtful gifts from a generous friend and neighbor.
Getting to write about surfing, something I’ve found I love to do.
Running down the beach at dawn as I do now, so pumped to get out there, smiling ear to ear…
The dog cocked her head as I stood, motionless before the sunset. Five years ago, everything was brand-new and shiny, an adventure. From biking home with a bloody ankle after a stingray slice, to surfing alone and slapping the water in celebration after one of the best waves of my life, the highs and lows of surfing are the ups and downs of life, refracted by salt water.
When I left New England, I was someone who enjoyed surfing, and paddled out when there were waves, but it wasn’t always a priority. At times I’d become seized by it, but it was also something my friends sometimes had to talk me into, especially in January, when I’d rather be snowboarding than packing on rubber.
Now, I realize how interminably linked my life is to the ocean and its swells.
Like many others, the first thing I do in the morning is check the surf. If possible, I plan the day around the window I have open. By day’s end, I anticipate the next session, and daily, I spend way too much time scoping boards I can’t afford.
As addictions go, though, it ain’t a bad one to have.
As we walked home in the cool dusk, I said thanks to the wind and the tides for the feeling of swooping up and down a clean wave at dawn, the way it magically changes the mood of the rest of the day. For the waiting, the fixation, the anticipation. The chatter at the bar about the next swell, the quick convos on the beach with strangers sharing stoke. I am thankful that riding waves is the very ethos of this little community, and I am beyond grateful I was able to be part of it for at least a little while.
I’ll savor every day from here on out, and when we go, I’ll leave here with an appreciation for this surfing life — and a pure love for riding waves — that I never knew I’d have.
