Some guy surfing at Bunkers a while ago.This is not me, nor recent, nor relevant other than it is Bunkers and I felt a picture would be nice.

Someone said to me the other evening, “You surf a lot!”
“I do not!” I replied.
“But, you do,” she insisted, “with having three kids and two jobs.”

I tried to explain. Forty days out of 233 this year is not “a lot.” It’s only 17 percent of the days possible. I’m always aiming for at least 50 percent, so I should’ve surfed at least 116 so far – and 40 is far short of that. I’d have an F if this were school, be fired if this were my job. Without surfing a lot, I will not get better and stronger; if I don’t get better and stronger, I won’t be able to surf through the fall and winter.

Of course, trying to explain obsessions to people rarely works.

So, Saturday. Bunkers. Head-high on the sets, glassy, sunny, unbelievably fun – and we had nowhere we had to be until afternoon. I surfed for two hours, paddled back after every wave, said, “Just one more!” until my arms were like overcooked noodles. Plenty of people out, but enough peaks and waves to hold us all. Just gorgeous. I kooked out on my first left: made the drop and kept my feet, but with a notable lack of artistry and control. Fortunately I caught so many more lefts, that I found my groove. Every time I reconnect, find that rhythm, experience that euphoria, I remember, “Oh yeah, this is what it feels like.”

And that’s the feeling I want in my life. A lot.