Camel, Saturday.

This wasn’t so much a session as it was exercise. As in, I paddled out through waves rebounding off rocks, intersecting with more incoming waves, thus turning the channel into a mess of bumps and craters, causing me to wonder just what the hell I was thinking. (Only four people out and some sunshine and a jones to surf – that’s what I was thinking.) The mid-tide slop gave way to semi-burly head-and-a-half waves rolling off the rock and breaking midway. With only a 40-minute window – the girls were at horseback riding lessons and Nick at Beachcomber – I didn’t have time to hesitate. When a wave came at me, I went. I made the drop. Unfortunately, the wave pitched harder and faster than I was prepared for, so my board and I parted ways rather quickly. The rest of the set washed me into Gremmie Cove territory. For a moment I considered making another go, but nothing I was experiencing supported that idea. Up the stairs I went. Three of the other four surfers appeared carside quickly, confirming the stance I’d taken.

Like, I said, exercise.