The Glamour of Surfing

The beach, the waves, the wax, the boards—it’s all glorious and sexy—but last year, the glamour of surfing really hit me on one particularly big day in York.

No one was surfing just north of the restaurant and I couldn’t figure out why. The waves looked fabulous and long, and areas north of there were starting to get crowded with fellow surfers, so I paddled south from where I was and popped up on a bomb of a right.

I rode it far in and my error of judgement became apparent quickly: as the wave ended, I was stuck in a swampy seaweed salad. The seaweed had taken over the beach that summer—the marine plants stank in the sun, leaving the tourists with nauseous delirium.

And here it was, clumped on my leash, in my hair, and clawing at me from all around, squishy like some life-sized tactile Halloween exhibit.

Somehow—and not gracefully—I was able to paddle back out, after unclumping the seaweed from around my neck and leash, feeling faint and somewhat claustrophobic. When I got beyond the break, I went about unclumping the last of the tangled mess of seaweed that had tied bowknots on the leash.

The next waves I rode, I ducked off early, managing to avoid the sloppy mess. When I finally rode one in, upon landing on the beach, I saw amidst the debris, a baby seal, dead, and some sort of fatty tissue from her body nearby.

It was a pickling moment, and I still grimace even now, remembering I’d just been swimming in the foul mess.

When I hopped in my car, I took one look at my hair and for the first time ever felt that Sinead O’Connor had been on to something. Every lock of hair was throttled by the red seaweed

How the hell am I going to get this out, I wondered.

The answer was: Patiently, with a wide tooth comb and lots of deep conditioner. Three hours later, I began to recognize myself in the mirror. I feared for the state of the pipes.

My car has never fully recovered from shuttling me home that day. There is still an eau de mer that won’t be quelled with the strongest essential oil blend, coffee grounds and baking soda. And occasionally, when I swing my hair too fast, I catch a whiff of ancient crustaceans, kelp and the ghost lives of baby seals and I am reminded once more of the glamour of surfing.

Facial expression: Concern, general malaise and a confidence that I’d be bowing out of any plans that afternoon, in order to work with this hair. (C) Sara Dyer

The Ocean is My Home and I Will Go: Be Surf

Went out with Maddie to LS yesterday just north of Rs. Low wind, sun and temps in the high 30s made it a bluebird day for winter surf. We hit it at mid tide and saw someone getting fun, hang 10 rides on a longboard as we were suiting up.

We kept finding ourselves in a strange pocket and we had a fair number of closeouts but the waves were fun and perfect size, 2-3, and consistent.

I can’t imagine not surfing through the whole year. Winter surfing can be painful and getting out of your wetsuit after is absolutely a tragic experience, but the last couple weeks the waves have been consistently FUN, and I can’t imagine missing them. Not only that, I just can’t imagine surfing being available to me, and me not going. I can’t imagine not being tethered to that lifeline. It’s just my sacred space. It’s where I get to see my friends, it’s where I get to go and be quiet on other days, it’s where I get to go and just be. There are no expectations of me, no roles I’m playing, no emails to answer, no promotion of business to do. There’s just me on a board in the water, willing a wave to come my way. it’s simple, it’s joyful, it fills my heart.

So ya. Turtle rolling and having 38 degree water massage my face is not a comfortable feeling. Struggling to wiggle out of my wet suit while the wind is licking my bare legs is also a tragicomical experience. But the ocean is my Home and I will go.

You Don't Know Unless You Go (or, Sometimes You Get Lucky): Be Surf

I actually love small days. Clean, 1-3 feet days are truly my favorite conditions. I love a big day, I love to push it just a bit—toe the line—but I really really love small days.

The forecast suggested going later in the day today was the thing to do but I got overcome with excitement and couldn’t not go this morning. Ten minutes later, I found myself driving north, Billie Eilish on Spotify. My wetsuit was still wet as were my booties because we haven’t set up “the most amazing Christmas present in the entire Universe” that Nick made for me (a mits/booties/Wet Sox custom-made rack *he made it*), and I knew it would be cold but I didn’t care!

I got so excited passing Stage Neck—if you peek down, you can size up the waves, and we had lines. I knew it would be small and clean—and likely very quiet given these are conditions a lot of people won’t get out of bed for.

I parked, suited up, ran to the shore, where a little grom was paddling over to the spot I was running towards. It was glassy and super low wind when I got there but within a half hour or so, the wind picked up. We still had waves rockin’ through but two hours in, they were starting to crumble with the high wind. Freezing and losing mobility in my feet and hands, I got out a couple hours in but was stoked because the wind was strong all day long, even through when it was supposed to drop off. I was so happy I had gone out in the AM, so happy the Wave Jiminy Cricket had whispered in my ear, filled me with stoke and sent me up north.

You can (and I do) look at surf reports all day but to really know you just have to go, and sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes the forecast is off and so whatever lightning struck you to go early or later, was some sort of magical divining rod giving you the intergalactic cosmic wave report. And the apps love to say 1-2 feet but there are always bigger sets that roll through if you’re patient and willing. Happy happy day.