The things we’ll do for surfing. It does seem like a con doesn’t it. He is an ode.



It’s Monday and I shouldn’t be doing this. Leaving early. Lying my way out the door. Because a season lolled by surf-less and there’s finally this pulse. Because 90 days broken up by soft-top afternoons left too much to the imagination. Because yesterday was another sweet barrage of daddy duties and baby games. Then a morning window missed. A high tide arrival. And this inability to quell the mind-reel filming through my third eye. I would have welcomed weekend traffic and gone north—sweat the steel box grind—if only there was time. Then came the shutdown winds. So, I’m starting the week on my terms before it all fades, for who knows how long. I’m done waiting. I could have planned more. I knew what was coming. We all did. We all have our reasons.

You’d think I was a con. The way I set things up. The things you do for surf. I said nothing to no one—not even my wife. No breadcrumb hints. By two, work dissipated into afterthought with every mile-marker passed. Two-thirty put nuclear reactors in my rearview mirror. By three I’d seen the freshly blank walls of the freeway overpass—wondering when the big erasure came and what new tapestry it will inspire. New graffiti building on scattered missives, scrawled on what must have been a nighttime mission with the whitewash barely dry. Suddenly suited up in a leaky 3/2—perfect for the offshore heat and water’s chill.




Click to THE SURFERS JOURNAL for Meditations In a Surf Emergency






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