
Ooof, we know. Sessions like these can be tough to come back from. Photo: Unsplash

You’re probably wondering what went wrong today. Well, my go-to wetsuit for this time of year is on the DL, so in my haste I threw on an old, threadbare suit. “We’re from New England,” I boasted to my fiancé. “We don’t get cold.”
My first early-morning duck dive sent a crispy waterfall down my back, and I never warmed up (I’m aware I’m spoiled now). Today my left leg also decided that it really does not enjoy bending anymore. I can stand up straight with the best of them, but each pop-up came with a fight and an anguished groan. Plus, the pesky seal who’s been stalking me for months kept sneaking up behind me, smirking beneath his whiskers and then vanishing.
I stroked up and down the beach in frozen futility, searching out a corner. In the distance, I swore surfers scored long, arching rides, but they were so far away they could have been palm trees. Around me, the water shimmered like a lake, and when a set finally rose out of the dreary, flat horizon, I was hopelessly out of position.
When I did get in position for a decent right, I inexplicably went left, then attempted to slash my way to the right and tumbled. Inside, I got clocked by the biggest set of the day. The session dragged on. I tripped over my leash, a seagull pooped on me, and the keel fish I’ve ridden for years felt like a soggy boogie board. Ultimately, I got held down, passed out, and dreamed I was standing in line at Costco with a soft-top under my arm, listening to the guy in front of me ask how much wax he should buy — a very special type of surf hell.
When I couldn’t remember how to paddle or take my leash off, I trudged home. On the way out the beach had looked beautiful, alluring. Now I could see the litter on the rocks, the trash, and dead birds and even worse, the surfers exalting as the waves picked up and the wind died — clearly because I was leaving.
Some days I come home, sigh and utter the words, “I wasn’t a great surfer today.” Today, I came home and said, “I should sell my boards, buy a used tuxedo and serve pizzas at the Italian joint down the street.” The dog sort of nodded, and then greeted me with more compassion than she’s ever shown, meaning she licked my ankle and then proudly held up the new pair of Vans she’d eaten for breakfast. Eventually, I sat on the front steps and wondered: what could ever make me want to do this again tomorrow?
At the same time, on some subconscious level, I knew that the next morning, I’d grab my board and tee up a redemption session.
We all know what we love about surfing, and it’s easy to plan surf trips and cram in double sessions when the waves are firing and we’re surfing well. But what keeps us coming back when our surfing smells worse than the dead fish my dog will, no doubt, roll in later today?
Maybe we can’t identify or label this motivating force, but we all acknowledge it exists. Perhaps a surfer’s ability to recover from a bad session comes natural to those of us who spend so much time under the power of the sea. Either way, it’s the type of energy and hardcore resolve that I’d like to bottle. This invisible force is the type of outlook athletes and artists aspire to possess when things invariably don’t turn their way.
Surfing, in all its difficulty and glory, fortifies us with hard shells to use against the other failures we all endure. An hour after my “session from hell,” I realized that despite the nagging work and chores of the weekday lined up on my plate, I still felt pretty good. At the very least, I’d gotten a workout in under the sun. I often feel grateful for the simplest things after a surf. Sunshine. Fresh water. Flip flops. Avocados. Hot showers, scrambled eggs, sweatpants, playing with my dog and on some days, Cam Rewind (not today, not even close).
Maybe you’re not convinced, and you’ve had it with surf sessions heavy on toil and tedium and light on satisfaction. Maybe you’ve already given up and sold your boards for golf clubs or chess sets or pickleball rackets. If so, all the power to you, but you’re sacrificing that eternal salt-soaked opportunity: the shiny chance for another ride.
In the same way that your last session made you question your athleticism and overall sense of balance, your next surf could unfold like a liquid dream. Your next ride could just keep on peeling, pulling you along and delivering you somewhere new. This is what surfing does for us on its best days, if you let it – it keeps on giving. The stoke that follows your plateau-busting wave spreads into the lineup and follows you home. When you paddle back out the day after a sinister session you’re making room for something great.
This sense of unending possibility, of the potential blowing in of the next morning’s glassy offshores, remains the reason why it’s so rare for surfers to up and quit riding waves altogether. It’s also why “redemption sessions” exist — to show that we can not only endure our follies but learn from them, and to bring us right back into the fold, mostly undamaged and a little wiser.
Meanwhile, I just loaded up my gear for tomorrow and I’ll see you out there. Hey, it sure as hell can’t be worse than today, right?