I've slept poorly the past week, waking to read at 4am without being able to fall back asleep. This week marked the anniversary of my father's death two years ago.
This morning, after another partly restless night, I loaded up my gear and headed to the beach. A couple of 70-something guys walking their dogs looked at me starting down the trail in my wetsuit, and in good humor mixed with a trace of envy, told me the surf looked good today.
The lineup was more crowded than usual, although I'd also arrived later due to the night's insomnia. I paddled up to an open spot by to a couple of twenty-something female surfers.
The day was clear and glassy - no texture to the surface of the water, which was warmer than usual for the time of year.
Above, terns were hunting beneath a nearly cloudless sky. Although the sun was out, it remained behind the cliffs overlooking the beach, leaving the lineup in the shade.
To my right, a couple of gray-haired surfers took their place. What I love about my local break is that there is neither testosterone nor bravura here - it's beginners, middle-aged mediocrity and elder surfers who were something to see in their day (or so they recount to one another within earshot) making the best of their hip-replacements.
There are plenty of waves to go around. Parents brings their sons and daughters to learn to love the ocean along a sandy reef - a mostly forgiving surface should one get hurled against it.
The beach is a ten minute drive from home. The price of convenience is that the waves frequently close out, where a decent drop doesn't leave you any shoulder to extend your ride to the right or left.
Today was no exception - mostly closed out, with a couple of memorable longer rides and a couple of short barrels ending in a closeout.
As the sun finally crested over the bluffs and warmed us, I felt fortunate to be here.
I've lost people who would have loved to witness this moment.
I love people whose bodies will not abide a moment like this.
Life is the accumulation of a series of small gifts. Sometimes I need to dunk my head in the ocean to be reminded to receive them.