I haven’t worn a watch in twenty years. When my last one broke I’d planned on getting it fixed, but two decades later I still haven’t gotten around to it. In that span I’ve grown pleasantly accustomed to not having a foreign object strangling my wrist. Most of the time I don’t need a watch, just use my cell phone or computer as a clock or infer the general time of day by the sun angle. There’s only one occasion when I need one: while surfing before a meeting or other time-sensitive obligation.

After sliding into my wetsuit, I’ll take one last look at my phone and then start my internal clock. It can be surprisingly accurate over short time spans, but the system breaks down after perhaps an hour (even quicker if set waves are taken on the head). When I sense my deadline is approaching but want to milk every last minute of good surf, I ask someone for the time. But nobody else wears a watch either, save for the occasional graybeard or gadget geek with a watch that makes tide predictions so generalized as to be worthless.

Sometimes you’ll get unhelpfully vague information from others in the lineup, like: “It’s between two and three.” You can often mine more precise information from someone who just paddled out, but the accuracy is plus or minus thirty minutes, tops, which is beyond the resolution needed for modern society. (The boss will not be stoked if you stroll into an important meeting thirty minutes late. And telling him you’re late due to an epic session is strongly not recommended.)

On occasion I’ll get a set wave to the beach with plenty of time left. But I usually push things too far and my internal clock goes red with no waves in site. Of course, the later you are, the flatter the ocean. It happens every time. I refuse to suffer the indignity of the paddle-of-shame to the beach, so I end up sweating out the remaining session and invariably catch some pathetic scrap fizzling on the reef, then run up the sand and scramble out of my wetsuit. And whenever I barely make it to an appointment, I curse myself and vow to buy a new watch immediately. I still haven’t gotten around to it, but I will.

In another two decades, tops.

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Surfer Magazine and dozens of other online and print publications. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, has recently been published as an ebook by Thumbscrews Press: http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/slow_entropy His novel, Imperfect Solitude, was released on December 1, 2010 by Casperian Press. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Tom is also the author of the twitter story, Dead Glass, which was featured on SurfPulse’s twitter feed. Visit him at tommahony.net.

Related posts:

1. Redwood Stringer #3: Spring at Dawn
2. Redwood Stringer #5: Summer at Midmorning
3. Redwood Stringer #2: F#@%ing Kelp

Midmorning we trudge down to the beach and weave through hordes of tourists loitering on the sand. The sky is overcast, the air muggy. Last night we partied too late at our buddy Mick’s house. We’re torn up this morning.

The surf is meager and packed with kooks. The conditions suck, yet we find ourselves quietly slipping into our wetsuits.

We paddle out. Sort of. The waves are so small we essentially walk to the lineup. A crumbler arrives and ten people thrash for it. We laugh at the absurdity. We share the next wave with a dozen people. There’s nowhere to go but straight. We kick out and linger underwater. It washes away some of the funk.

That’s the only reason we’re out here. Despite the abhorrent conditions we must surf. It’s our only hope of regaining some energy. Some sense of worth.

We compare notes about last night. Mick was in rare form. Everyone was. We seem to recall nude women and an oddly violent pillow fight and some weird dude with a banjo. It’s all a blur.

As we float in the lineup we watch several women leave Mick’s house and embark on the Walk of Shame down the boardwalk: high heels and glittery cocktail dresses and bed-hair wildly out of place among the sweaty tourists. As the women disappear down the boardwalk, the banjo guy exits the house and stumbles down the beach.

So we didn’t imagine him after all.

We turn to the sea and hope for something good to ride, perhaps the first pulse of impending swell or a once-a-day rogue set.

It never comes. We surf the miserable crap just long enough to catch our five-wave quota.

On the last wave we trim along the face, too lazy to turn. We just stand and glide and feel the water beneath our feet and the breeze on our faces and the summer sun beating through the overcast.

We step onto the sand and walk up the beach toward home, ready to face the day.

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Surfer Magazine and dozens of other online and print publications. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, has recently been published as an ebook by Thumbscrews Press: http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/slow_entropy His novel, Imperfect Solitude, will be released on December 1, 2010 by Casperian Press. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Tom is also the author of the twitter story, Dead Glass, which was featured on SurfPulse’s twitter feed. Visit him at tommahony.net.

Related posts:

1. Redwood Stringer #2: F#@%ing Kelp
2. Redwood Stringer #6: Time-Sensitive Obligations
3. Redwood Stringer #4: Texture

A glimpse of the ocean texture can reveal a lot about the day ahead. When I’m driving to work or running errands and get a peek at the ocean—not the waves or beach, just water on the distant horizon—that view is critical to my mindset.

The view might reveal a calm surface like blue glass. Or the water churned and broiled with whitecaps. Or a light texture from the west, the ocean still glassy but chop coming soon. Or a breeze from the north that will render some spots bumpy and others groomed with offshore wind.

Sometimes the texture will influence my immediate plans. Sheet glass might mean nonessential work will be postponed or weaseled out of. Whitecaps might mean the difficult job I’ve been delaying will get done.

Usually, though, my plans can’t change but my attitude will. When I’m driving to work and see whitecaps in the distance, it’s very sweet. I’m not missing any good surf and as such I will have a good day. I will be focused, Zen-like, at peace with myself and the world. My irritating colleagues will seem funnier and more bearable. Pressing problems will be solved. The cheap, gut-sizzling office coffee will seem less rancid than usual. I’ll resist the urge to destroy the perpetually malfunctioning printer. I’ll let go, for the day, my dislike of those tortuous office birthday parties and the excruciating rendition of “happy birthday.”

But driving to work after seeing that sheet blue glass … It’s going to be a bad day. Very bad indeed.

Like my shrill neighbor in the adjacent cubicle is screaming “happy birthday” on an endless loop.

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Surfer Magazine and dozens of other online and print publications. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, has recently been published as an ebook by Thumbscrews Press: http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/slow_entropy He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Tom is also the author of the twitter story, Dead Glass, which was featured on SurfPulse’s twitter feed. Visit him at tommahony.net.

Related posts:

1. Redwood Stringer #6: Time-Sensitive Obligations
2. Redwood Stringer #3: Spring at Dawn
3. Redwood Stringer #5: Summer at Midmorning

A crack on the bedroom window jerks me awake. The room is dark. I glance at the clock and groggily realize that I overslept. I stumble to the window. My buddy waits below, about to throw another pebble. I wave a vague apology, lurch through the darkness, grab my surfboard and wetsuit from the garage, and hustle into the spring chill.

I toss my gear into his truck and we drive north on Highway 1. Zeppelin plays on the stereo. We buy coffee at an all-night diner and continue north. The first hints of gray soak the eastern sky.

We park on the bluff above the reef and gaze at the ocean. Waves crash in the distance but the size and shape are indistinguishable in the weak light. An onshore breeze stirs, moist and chilly, then fades to calm. We stamp our feet and exhale into cupped hands. With the persistent onshore flow of spring, the upwelling will be fierce, the water dense and bitter cold.

Light strengthens and the ocean appears before us. There’s a windswell running, a bit crossed-up, incredibly short period. Nobody out. The surface is quasi-glassy, but with onshore texture creeping in from the west, it’ll be blown out soon enough.

Neither of us admits it but we’re reluctant to brave the cold and brutal paddle for marginal surf. We could do the dance of checking endless spots to delay and procrastinate but we know the surfable conditions won’t last and based on tide, wind, and swell, this reef is the best option. We want hot coffee and a stack of pancakes dripping with butter and syrup; we could be defrosting in the diner in ten minutes. But we know that, if we leave without surfing, we’ll regret it for the rest of the day.

We’re in a bind. The situation is not clear cut. If the waves were cranking we’d already be out there and if they sucked we’d already be at the diner. But they’re okay, worth a go out, but no real shame to decline.

A judgment call.

The sun peeks over the eastern horizon. More light than heat. The hills are green and lush and beautiful. We initiate overtures about leaving, our analysis of the conditions laced with pessimism.

We label a set “weak,” though if we really wanted to surf, we’d say: “looks rideable.”

We decide to wait for one more set to confirm our analysis. To know, later in the day when we think back to the morning, that we made the appropriate call in leaving.

A set arrives. We watch in silence. It reels across the slab. Not bad. As the set ends we know we can’t leave without surfing. Pride and conscience wouldn’t allow it. Reluctantly we mumble and nod and suit up in the cold dawn.

My wetsuit is still dripping from a session three days ago. I forgot to hang it up to dry. It feels like slipping on a suit of ice. My buddy heckles me as he slides into his dry and toasty neoprene. I grimace and curse the spring dawn and my lazy stupidity.

We wax our boards and scramble down the bluff. The paddle is arduous. We reach the lineup and trade waves for an hour, constantly fighting the current. We catch numerous waves but none are good. It looked better from the bluff.

The wind kicks up and we head in. Our hands are numb and useless as we struggle from our wetsuits and into dry clothes. We drive to the diner, slide into a booth, order coffee, and slowly thaw.

The chill lingers in our ear canals, sinuses stuffed with saltwater. A poor session by any objective standard. Neither of us can recall a single good ride. But with the day ahead and all the pitfalls contained therein, we had our moment and we’re sure of one thing.

We made the right call.

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Surfer Magazine and dozens of other online and print publications. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, has just been published as an ebook by Thumbscrews Press: http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/slow_entropy He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Tom is also the author of the twitter story, Dead Glass, featured on SurfPulse’s twitter feed. Visit him at tommahony.net.

Related posts:

1. Redwood Stringer #4: Texture
2. Redwood Stringer #1: Clarity
3. Redwood Stringer #6: Time-Sensitive Obligations

In early fall, before the big winter swells hit, some reefs along the central coast are so dense with kelp that you could almost walk across the fronds. It gets even thicker at low tide. I’ve seen egrets standing on mats of kelp as if loitering on dry ground.

The stuff is a bitch to surf in. When paddling through the worst of it you have to grab the fronds and pull yourself along as if climbing a rope. If you duck under a wave and surface in the kelp, it pulls you down and you’re forced to bushwhack out of the jungle. It’s irritating and vaguely creepy.

Surfing through the tangle entails a bumpy and brutal ride. It’s quite entertaining to stand on the bluff and watch people race down the line and hit the kelp at full throttle and stop abruptly like they’ve nailed a massive speed bump. They’ll flounder and face-plant and kook-out in countless different ways. The carnage is hilarious and curiously satisfying to watch.

But I’ve noticed that when I’m racing down the line and hit the kelp and kook-out badly, it doesn’t seem quite as funny or the least bit satisfying.

F#@%ing kelp.

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in central California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Surfer Magazine and dozens of other online and print publications. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, has just been published as an ebook by Thumbscrews Press: http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/slow_entropy He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Visit him at tommahony.net.

Related posts:

1. Redwood Stringer #4: Texture
2. Redwood Stringer #6: Time-Sensitive Obligations
3. Redwood Stringer #1: Clarity

[Editor's note: Welcome to a new feature column on SurfPulse! "Redwood Stringer" will feature a series of essays by surfer Tom Mahony, who has devoted himself to surfing the redwood coastal range from Big Sur to the Oregon border. The essays in this column will reflect his surfing experience in this special part of the world. —MR]

The cove is on the north coast. To surf it you must first hike through Sitka spruce and grand fir forest. The trail becomes overgrown and requires some bushwhacking. It feels strange to bushwhack in a five-millimeter wetsuit and booties.

But the landscape is spectacular, worth the hike regardless of surf. It’s the best of both worlds: waves and trail, surf and turf.

The wave itself is not great. It has a strange wobble to it. The cove is not the type of spot where, as you hike toward it, you think: it’s gonna be firing. It’s rarely firing. But you usually have it to yourself.

It’s sharky, even for that stretch of coast. Wind often blows onshore. Rain is frequent and torrential. The water is frigid and murky, the current hard to read. Buoys hover in the double digits for weeks and months at a time. The wave maxes out easily. During winter, you’re usually waiting for the buoys to go down, not up.

The cove is not magazine material. It’s not a place for high-performance surfing. There are no pro surfers within three hundred miles.

The cove is about personal discipline. It’s about introspection and observation. Because when you’re surfing alone and there’s swell and current and rain and toothy predators, if things go wrong, you have nobody but yourself to deal with it.

But sharks and drowning are low-percentage affairs. Those melodramatic concerns dominate the mind, but can—except for rare cases of bad luck— be conquered in the mind. What grab no mental headlines, but must constantly be confronted, are the frigid water, foul weather, difficult paddle, swirling current, and treacherous rocks.

There is no channel. Nobody will tow you through the lines of whitewater. Nobody will read the current for you. Nobody will rub your belly and blow warm air up your ass. If the ocean spanks you there is nobody to blame but yourself.

But if things go well, there is nobody to praise but yourself. Nobody did it for you, nobody saw you do it, and nobody cares but you. In a world of finger pointing and creepy narcissism, in this place there is clarity of accountability.

That is what the cove offers.

Related posts:

1. Redwood Stringer #4: Texture
2. Redwood Stringer #2: F#@%ing Kelp
3. Redwood Stringer #6: Time-Sensitive Obligations