When I rolled over in bed to the sound of faint whispers of my iPhone alarm, nearly every muscle and bone in my back and shoulders popped or cracked.
Yesterday’s three-plus hours of nonstop surf and a two mile run as a nightcap was more than enough to have my body creaking like a door hinge that needed a major squirt of WD-40. After my tendons and everything else slipped back into their respective place, I looked out the window to see a rain-soaked street and grumbly waves. It was time to wake up and play.
I grabbed blue and skipped down the empty beach, a few onlookers from the pier appearing a bit puzzled. The waves looked difficult and even with a full night’s sleep I was tired, and I started paddling out hard, not realizing for a bit that it was so low tide that I could pretty much walk out into the pounding surf. With a last push I made it out, alone in the rolling sets and searching for makeable peaks in the jumbled waves. An achy body was pleading for a short session, so I caught a few, and on my last ride made a few turns, then air dropped down the face when the wave doubled up, almost landing it and giggling when I came up with a hairful of sand and a board still in one piece.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past 237 days of surfing in a row, it’s how to fall better. I never like to be too far away from my longboard (separation anxiety) but when I fall on a wave, I kick that thing as far away from me as possible or jump to high heavens, having had way too memorable collisions when I tried to grab it or stayed too close.
I managed to avoid another injury, and with both of us intact, we showered, got the sand out of cracks and crevices, and sauntered home, ready for some French-pressed Nicaraguan coffee.
