This morning brought a solid 2-3 foot swell to my local break, a sandy reef. I was out among a dozen surfers, the lone bodyboarder in the (just after) dawn patrol crowd.
I should clarify a couple of points at the outset. First, I do not surf the chest-thumping, testosterone-heavy breaks that make the headlines for hooliganism and size. My favored local break has a parking lot full of child seats - it's where time-crunched dads try to recapture their youthful enthusiasms before their kids wake up. It's where post-college young men new to the workforce give lessons to their girlfriends in hopes the latter will take up an activity dear to them.
Regulars include C, the friendly Costa Rican surf instructor who takes private school kids out for lessons, as well as R, the well-respected local surfer who now rides a surf kayak as a capitulation to years of wear and tear on his hips. It's the spot where, if you arrive too late on a summer weekday, you will be swarmed by elementary school children from the local surf camp.
[A quick digression about that parking lot - on a large winter swell, when just about every tradesman will call in sick for work, you can find their trucks with identifying logos in this parking lot, ditching work for a good day on the water. Expect delays if you make the rookie mistake of undertaking a remodel during the fall and winter months.]Second, I am a bodyboarder, sometimes referred to derisively as a "sponger," and about as low status in the waterman hierarchy as it's possible to hold. I've been enjoying this recreation for nearly four decades, enough to be grateful for the renewal that comes with the time outside, comfortable with with the shortcomings of my technique and abilities, and wise enough to know that this, like all physical activities, is something that I will not be able to enjoy forever.
On this particular morning, a weekday, the lineup consisted of several groups. Nearest me were a couple of male 40-somethings who made up for receding hairlines with excess bluster, and who kept loudly calling one another "dude," as if doing so might camouflage their lost youth. A half-dozen twenty-somethings, mostly men, took turns catching closeout sets - they caught many waves, but the rides lasted a few seconds.
Then there was the old guy in the lineup, hair flecked with more salt than pepper, riding a yellow longboard. He was not the fastest paddler, but every set that rolled in saw him catching the longest ride. On a day of closeout sets, he was selecting impeccable lefts with surprisingly long shoulders.
I took a closer look as he rode one in, only to realize he looked about my age.
We nodded in acknowledgement, the only two guys from our cohort on the water, each of us grateful we still have the health and time to do this thing that brings us a measure of exhilaration.