I peek out of my tent, the hood of my sleeping bag cinched tightly around my face. Water drips off the nylon ceiling and occasionally catches the tip of my nose or an exposed cheek. My fault for being too lazy to put on a rainfly. Outside, a dense fog wraps the central California coastline. The sun won’t rise for another hour, and the predawn light barely penetrates the veil of water droplets. But, to hell with it, I’m already awake. And we chanted “surf trip” for the whole 12-hour drive here, I’m bound by duty to get out.
I force my way out of my soggy sleeping situation and cram myself into a wetsuit, which I’d left out to dry on a nearby picnic table. Thanks to that pesky fog, it’s equally soggy. And cold.
A short walk over the sand dunes later, I dip a toe into the water, realize it’s not as cold as I’d made it out to be in my head and steel myself for the inevitable beating I’ll take paddling out. The waves are far from ideal, not that I’m good enough at surfing for it to matter much.
Over the next week, I’m reminded of many similarities between this ocean endeavor and the world of skiing I’m more familiar with. Scouting for waves feels much like exploring new zones, checking a ridgeline over just to see what’s on the other side. On the rare occasion I actually catch a wave, I imagine the feeling of flow is similar to that of powder skiing. And the best conditions are always in the morning.
Despite my morning escapades, our host apologizes for the shitty conditions. I couldn’t care less. The fun is in getting out. Exploring, crashing and getting up again to appreciate the beauty of it all. As Gerry Lopez said, “Surf is where you find it”. I would add that surf is what you make of it.
—Liam
Related posts: