The cold sting of the morning slaps my face when I open my window to check the weather. Clear. I sense a gentle offshore breeze as I make my way outside and down the street in the early morning light. Walking onto the sand and up the dunes, I feel the previous night's cold underneath my feet. As expected, I can hear the muffled sounds of whitewater rumbling, and as I rise to the top of the dunes I am not disappointed. There are waves.

My next two hours' activity determined, my pace quickens as I scramble back to the house to begin a ritual that has changed little over the years: coffee, stretching, wetsuit, board selection, waxing. I glance briefly at my phone, but elect not to sound the wave alarm to friends. I will surf alone this morning.

I grab one of my larger boards and, pulling on my wetsuit and slipping on my hood, I am out the door. Trotting down the dunes, perhaps even skipping a bit as I watch a clean set crack on the outside sand bars, I realize that it is bigger than I first judged. I am accustomed to this however, as it is difficult to determine size when no one is yet out in the water.

No fewer than six rows of whitewater face me as I wade into the shallows. The water is warmer than yesterday, I try to convince myself, when in truth I know it is not. The reality is the water is cold. A biting cold. I glance down the beach as I jump rows of whitewater, awaiting a break in the relentless churning, and spot another lone surfer entering the water about one hundred yards away. I take strange solace in watching him get knocked around like a tiny cork in the shore break.

The lull I am waiting for never comes and, begrudgingly, I launch myself prone onto my board and begin paddling through a seemingly endless onslaught of foamy walls of water. The first few are the worst, as cold water flushes down into my previously dry and warm wetsuit. Thank god for the hood, I think, which prevents my head from screaming in pain at the shock of the cold. After a flurry of continual duck dives—so many that I lose count—I glance back to shore to find that not only have I made little progress, but I've also already drifted about 75 yards south of where I began.

The duck diving continues. I experiment with water dynamics by using different body positioning during the dives, first diving deep with my board, then shallow; using my knee for leverage to push the board deeper, then trying my foot on the deck of the board for increased leverage. Sometimes I slip through the whitewater relatively unscathed. More often though I am seized by the turbulence, like invisible hands grabbing both sides of my arms and yanking me backwards . . . and upside down . . . and downwards. Mostly, I get knocked around and taken where the ocean cares to take me.

After twenty minutes of this pummeling—this self-inflicted beating—and right as I am about to give up and turn shoreward, a mysterious rip current takes hold of me and begins sweeping me rapidly outward. I laugh at the lunacy of it, but graciously accept the complimentary ride. The current whisks me to the outside bar and, in befitting fashion, deposits me smack in the middle of the impact zone with an impending double overhead set approaching. Shit. I manage to barely squeak through the face of the first wave, but the next two swells are going to catch me. Rather than bail my board and swim deep, I instead attempt to duck dive the first rumbling ball of foam. This is a mistake. After a momentary push forward beneath the wall of whitewater, the wave violently rips my arms from the rails of my board and sends me cart-wheeling end-over-end under water. My mind flashes to the warmth of my bed from whence I came just an hour earlier as I am thrashed around in the turbulence. It's probably still warm there, I think. How is it I now find myself underwater, in total darkness, getting tossed around in brutal fashion? I woke up two hours early for this? I swim upwards after the passing wall of water loosens its grip, only to be faced with the third wave of the set when I come to the surface. My board is still not back in my possession and my leash remains stretched taught, so I make no attempt to duck dive. I simply take a deep breath and swim down as far as I can, and the wave passes over me relatively benignly.

I come to the surface and collect my board (and wits) and to my relief there are no more swells bearing down on me. If I was not fully awake before, I most certainly am now. I stroke calmly the rest of the way out to get into position and, for the first time today, I sit upright on my board.

A set approaches to my left, and I paddle towards it. As I do, I spot the only other surfer in the lineup in perfect position for the oncoming set. Paddling in his direction, I watch him pick out the second wave, wheel around, and begin stroking for what now shows itself to be a jacking ten foot left. The moving wall is steep, and as he paddles hard down the face before standing, he looks to be late. From my viewpoint the wave is already curling behind him, lip descending, breathing down his neck. At the instant he springs to his feet the rising sun's reflection shimmers on the liquid face and the wave turns completely round and hollow. I stop all motion and merely watch, content at this instant to be a spectator.

How fortunate I am to witness this moment—to be a part of it. I did not, however, simply arrive here. It is not by chance that I find myself in this place, at this very minute. Surfing is an evolving series of events all linked together, beginning with the learning process and flowing on through to proficiency and sometimes to mastery, with many points in between. There are sacrifices in the form of hours in the water, endless surf checks, physical and mental training, foregoing of other sports and endeavors, sometimes even failed relationships. There is a lifetime spent in order to arrive at moments like these, to witness these unique perspectives, to fully appreciate them.

His board goes weightless for a moment as it skates down the vertical wave face. He is now actually under the lip as the partially broken wave roars behind him. Then, at the last possible moment—a point where the behemoth behind him surely is about to have its way and crack him square between the shoulder blades and drive him to the bottom—he impossibly manages to get his fins to catch with a deft touch midway down the face, and his board transfers its vertical energy instantly into a horizontal direction as the lip feathers delicately above his head. This little change in direction, an ever-so-slight pressure on the inside rail of his board at the most critical juncture of the wave—so much finesse—is beautiful. It absolutely captivates me. He is now not in the barrel so much as he is in the hook, perfectly positioned in the power center of the curl. The most difficult part over, his board now glides effortlessly across the face as the wave explodes all around him. This is the last I see of him as the swell passes by me and he disappears from view.

Taking pause to observe this pure act of surfing, I temporarily lose sight of my own wave riding intentions. I am, however, abruptly reminded as I look seaward to see the following wave swing wider than its predecessor, heading straight for me. There is nothing for me to do but go. I spin my board around and stroke into what begins as a relatively forgiving drop, but one that quickly steepens as the wave hits the sand bar beneath and lurches forward. Riding backside, I feel the wall go concave behind me as I reach the trough and lean into a strong bottom turn. Coming off the bottom I look up over my shoulder and get my first glimpse of this solid, rapidly moving wall of water that threatens to overcome me. I manage to stay just in front of the falling lip as I pull up into the wave face and watch in wonder as the entire beast engulfs me deep into its belly. Much to my amazement, I am still on my board and riding as this moving cylinder spins around me on all sides. A cavernous sound fills my ears as I do nothing but stand, observe, and absorb the moment. Just as quickly, the wave opens again and releases me out into the open face. I carve several long slalom turns before sensing another impending hollow section, and I instinctively pull into the barrel a second time. This time I am not so fortunate, and the entire section shuts down on top of me as the wave detonates upon the shallow inner sand bar. The lights go out as I am once again churned and bounced and tossed around on the inside. I am finally spit out from within the frothy chaos, sand in my ears and up my nose, not far from where I originally entered the water. Dragging myself up onto the beach, I decide to take a short break before I paddle back out for more.
Good morning.

Get some waves. - DL

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