A Peak Every Now and Then

It’s funny how we lift certain things up and place them on a pedestal. I’ve noticed myself doing this more and more lately. The blurring of days, sandwiched between predictable social media mornings and netflix nights, has got me itching for something to break the trance. This work computer and its blazing monitor flicker between YouTube and spreadsheets, Craigslist and Zoom meetings. The lines that separate the quadrants of life are ripping apart and now the fluids are all mixing together, creating a sort of grey soup. Subconsciously or not, my brain scans the world (ie. my computer) for inspiration. And when something catches my eye, I latch on with the desperation of the hand attached to a falling body. 

Sometimes it’s a new job opportunity on LinkedIn, a career shift that lasts exactly three cover letters long. Last month, it was a strike mission surf trip to northern Nicaragua with three friends. We had planned a weeklong stay on a notorious beach break. Equatorial sun, prepared meals, and unlimited beers would be the much needed punctuation mark on the endless run-on sentence of our newfound working lives. Unfortunately for us (and our mental health), our stoked-clouded minds failed to predict the predictable cancellation of every major airline flying between the U.S. and Central America. COVID-19 is peaking again after all.

With a new normal baseline that is set comically low, even small victories like a Christmas day trip to the movies are hopeless and out of reach. In these times, it has been made painfully obvious, as I’m sure everyone reading this knows, not to get one’s hopes up. But on the converse, it is equally easy in these times to get one’s hopes up. Was it logical to think that me and three buddies could weasel our way into another country during a pandemic just for a few waves? Definitely not. But was it possible? We convinced ourselves that the answer was yes. 

Regardless of our hopes, the fact of the matter is that we were unable to make the trip. The result of this cancellation was incredibly painful but surprisingly familiar. Throughout the majority of this pandemic, I’ve relied on glorified plans and ideas to pull me upwards from the low hum of day to day life. Without an end in sight, I’m constantly creating things to look forward to. And this is good! It keeps me excited and motivated and makes me feel alive. But it can also be dangerous. The balancing act between hope and reality is particularly delicate right now, but I hop on again and again out of desperation, falling flat on my butt more often than not. 

It’s hard to get up again and again when the reality that you get up for is the same one you are trying to escape. Just the other morning, I was brought to tears in the Sloat parking lot at the southern end of Ocean Beach where the epic forecast, the sleepless night, and the burn of anticipation all came crashing down on my head like the snarling lip that sent me and my broken (brand new) gun back to the beach. 

I’d been tracking this swell for weeks and I knew that this day was going to be all time. For the days leading up, I’d periodically toggle between Surfline and www.Windy.com, shaking with excitement the entire time. The surf was going to be big, and more importantly, it would be howling offshore all day long. There was a catch of course. There always is. It was Monday and I’d have to get all my surfing in before work. 

By the time I reached the water’s edge, the sky was transitioning from purple to pink. Perfect a-frame barrels formed and disappeared up and down the awakening coast. Today was the day I’d been dreaming of since moving to San Francisco two years earlier, let alone since the start of COVID. After a grueling paddle out, I sat alone at a peak to myself, catching two rights and one perfect left in the shadow of the backlit Sunset District. 

To keep things brief, the ecstasy that I felt on those waves and in the water was short lived. In an attempt to dive under a set, I snapped my board and filled my suit with 50 degree water. The shock of popping up and seeing the broken remains of my newest board was devastating but surprisingly familiar. Another unpredictable, predictable let down in this never-ending pandemic. Back in the parking lot, I broke down for a bit. It was 6:45am on a Monday. The surf was big and perfect. Work started in a few hours and new week along with it. Maybe next time, I guess. This one hurt. 

As I unloaded the two pieces of my board into the garage, I caught a glimpse of my 6’8. It was probably too small for the surf today. And I probably didn’t have enough time to catch anything before work anyway. But there is just something about this pandemic that makes people push it. Was it logical to immediately turn around and surf double-overhead Ocean Beach in the hour and a half before my first meeting? No shot. But was it possible? Yes. 

In less than twenty minutes I was back on the beach, with a potato chip under my arm. The surf was still offshore and it was still bombing. I surfed for an hour that morning and caught some of the most perfect big waves of my life. It’s dangerous to get one’s hopes up nowadays. But also easy. And while expectations rarely meet reality, sometimes they come close. And sometimes that’s all we can really hope for.