How’s that for a setup? Photo: Miguel Balboa
Tell studied surfers from around the world, “I just got out of the water in Boston,” and many will say, “There’s surf there? Must be colder than a witch’s tit.”
I lived in Boston for five years. And not once did it occur to me to go look for surf. Out of sight, out of mind. Then, as timing would have it, my father chased the swells of love to Beantown (and re-married a lovely woman) just as I moved back to the West Coast. And so, the winter holiday pilgrimages back to The Old Colony State became a tradition.
My father, swell deprived in his new home, bought a board and hoped for the best. Then, one day during my first trip back, we stumbled on the winter wonderland pictured above. Four- to six-foot (East Coast-sized) lines marched in. The winds howled offshore. Shapely walls, and the occasional tube curled over its guts into the gray-blue water. The invitation was irresistible, and off we went into the coldest surf I’ve ever known.
Once More Into The Gray
Barreled in Boston. It rolls off the tongue… almost as well as barreled in Bali… almost. Getting there — inside that gray room in the heart of New England — is a journey that strengthens the soul. It begins with donning a wetsuit so thick you might need lube to successfully get it on. From head to toe — hood, booties, and gloves add an uncomfortably thick layer of necessary warmth.
A series of treks and paddles follow. Trudge over the icy rock hills and listen to the crunch of snow over shell and sediment. Then the confrontation of diverging paths; around or through the tide pools. Surfers, as in our nature, opt for the one less traveled. The first dip gives the veritable feeling of a cold so deep it makes the bones ache, and joints stiffen. Out of the tide pool, and once more over the hill, man finally meets the shoreline.
Eyes focus on a wide field of waves, from A-frames to close out shorebreak nugs. Dealer’s choice. Punchy, peeling wedges with frothy little portals — the ones we artfully dance and tuck into — summon the call of the wild. It’s a primal feeling, fine tuned over the years. The unconscious, yet deliberate scan of the playing field. Co-opted brain pathways from the hunt; now only for waves.
Once in the water, the thick wetsuit does its job, keeping the icy water in check. But the first duck dive transforms the nose and cheeks into a lobstery red befitting New England. The novelty of snow and wonder begin to fade when that blessedly familiar sight approaches — a set wave.
But the cumbersome amount of rubber changes the dynamic, diminishing, to a great extent, paddle power and efficiency. And as that glorious frigid freight train passes by, the howl of the offshore winds groan, smacking sea and foam onto bare face. The icy slap from the hands of the beast are a reminder to dig a little deeper in these waters.
The redemption song waves its feathery peak in the distance. With a few extra paddles and gritted teeth, I’m on my feet, flying down the line and across The Pond that is the Atlantic Ocean. After a few check turns, the wave begins its heave and roll on the shallow inside section. I check my speed, and drag my neoprene covered hand in the face. Kickout? Not an option. The wave takes me all the way home, and I pull into a closeout barrel right on the cobblestone. A complete ride, New England style.
The battle, the real uphill side of it, has only begun. After a few slips and slides back over the rocks, a paddle through the tide pools, and the final trek through the now calf-deep snow, my extremities have the dexterity of a sloth. I manage to wrestle my gloves off and dislodge the keys from under the truck’s wheel well. Picking them up off the ground does the final job, touching the snow with my numb fingers converts them into solid blocks of unmoving flesh. I pinch the key between my prayer hands and try to rotate my body around them, praying for some muscular torque to catch, but my wrists fold, my elbows straighten, and the key does not turn.
Then a good samaritan approaches, discrediting anything in the vein of the word “Masshole.” The man, dressed in flopped Timberland boots, basketball shorts, a Carhartt jacket, and matching beanie walks up to me. He reaches for the key and unlocks the car, starts it, and blasts the heat. Before I can thank him, he’s off, taking a sip of his iced coffee. That’s Massachusetts for you. One cold place, filled with a few warm people.
