The Post-Surf Meal

This is an ode to an unsung hero, forever in our hearts but rarely receiving the credit that it is due. At times it is taken for granted, surely, but nonetheless it is there for us. To be clear, I would never refer to this experience as underrated, as any surfer will quickly admit that this is one of our most beloved ceremonies. What I’m referring to, of course, is the first meal after a good long surf. 

For as long as there has been surfing, there has been the meal afterwards. And while this meal takes many shapes, of which we will discuss, the thing that makes this meal so special in particular, is its proximity to the world’s most joyous activity and the hand that it plays in bringing us back to reality. You see, surfing itself is an immersive experience. We are recentered in the universe. Our only thoughts are that of finding, catching, and riding waves. In between sets we may drift off and follow strings of thought, but this is no different from traditional meditation for as soon as that next wave arises, or that next grom paddles deeper than you, the universe once again shrinks down to the lineup before you. 

This is all to highlight the very reason many of us surf in the first place, why, even given small onshore waves, we still paddle out. Surfing takes us somewhere else. And when it is over, we are kicked back down to the reality of overcrowded corporate beach towns or that long drive back to the ‘burbs. The meal after surfing is the crutch – or better yet – the soft hand that holds our own, thus guiding us back to the physical world of which we had briefly escaped from. It is the transitional period between surfing and reality, preferably shared with friends, and likely greasy as hell.  

For years now, ice cream has been locked up – like the razor blades and deodorant – in the aisles of our city’s grocery stores. It was not until recently that I was informed that corporations do this because ice cream is targeted more than any other commodity by drug users. In the case of Fentanyl use in particular, the cool and sweet relief of ice cream is a tool to assist the brutal comedown and stave off withdrawals just a bit longer. And while Fentanyl is an international health crisis (fueled by international powers and enabled by predatory developers eager to buy up intentionally devalued neighborhoods) and surfing is, uhh, surfing, all humans welcome, and in some cases need, assistance in coming back to reality. 

The post-surf meal, while universally cherished, varies regionally. Just as Southern California is home to homeschooled children that spend their time between surf sessions in the back of Sprinter Vans that are worth more than a small apartment, it is also home to the burrito – both breakfast and otherwise. Or how Hawai`i boasts poor infrastructure, bad traffic, huge potholes, and a riderless rail system, it also provides plate lunch. In New England it’s a hoagie and clam chowder, in Miami it’s Celsius and an empanada, and in Europe, well, it’s probably a cigarette and some grilled fish, I honestly don’t know but it seems right. 

Regardless of the what, we focus on the how, how this meal makes us feel. The post-surf meal is all-encompassing. It is comforting and nourishing. It is warming and filling. It drips down our hands and hangs out of the side of our mouths while we talk.

And what do two friends, both dressed in hoodies, cargo pants (with the keys on the carabiner attached to the belt loop), and black vans talk about during this meal? The only thing that surfers can talk about: the surf, of course, and, more specifically, their experience surfing. You see, the post-surf meal is our time for exaggeration, dramatization, and gossip. It is, as we say in the industry (and by industry I definitely do not mean the surf industry), the time to gab. 

The moments between bites and breathing are spent discussing how that set that came our way doubled up on the inside, and that although nobody saw it, you actually got kinda barrelled and had a nice vision. The only response, of course, is, “that was a sick one,” before telling an equally half-true story. The post-surf meal is full of these anecdotes and of other happenings in the lineup. Like how you gave that one wave to the old uncle who missed the last one, or how you called that one guy a kook for ditching his board next to you.

This ritual is as important as the eating itself. If food is nourishment for the body, these conversations are nourishment for the soul. And for the toxically masculine out there – and boy is there no shortage of them surfing – this is some of the best male bonding that society gets. 

Just two boys going halfsies on a Korean Chicken Plate and Loco Moco and talking about how good the other looked on that wave. Nothing to see here!

My best memories of surfing are paired with equally important memories of eating. Some are silly. Like how the only time I was ever allowed to eat fast food was on the way back from bodysurfing with my dad. After a Sunday morning dawn patrol at Makapu`u, we would stop at Jack In The Box. He would get a Jumbo Jack with Cheese and I would get the Ultimate Breakfast Sandwich and a Strawberry and Banana Smoothie. I know what you’re thinking, “Jack In The Box makes smoothies?” They do. And they are delicious. 

But these mornings at the drive through with my dad were more than just eating junk food in the car. It was also a shared secret that, in my twelve year old head, made me feel closer to him. Perhaps he and I were less different than I had thought. Maybe adults aren’t always perfect. He used to be my age once too. 

“What was Makapu`u like when you were growing up? What was it like to be a kid like me?” 

Others are more obvious. Like that time Duncan and I surfed Scott’s Creek on the biggest north swell in years, busting out for the first time the big wave guns that we had purchased earlier that winter. While we both hyped each other up from the side of a pre-dawn Highway 1, the surf was gnarly and I was properly tripping. 

We surfed for three hours and I’ve never been more amped up in my life. We spent that time dodging closeouts, pearling on double ups, and getting some of the biggest waves of our lives thus far. When I got to the beach, I was so out of it that I walked within ten feet of a male elephant seal, thinking that it was a washed up tree.

With adrenaline literally pouring from my brain, we drove up to Pescadero, stopped by the country store and ordered a fresh-baked loaf of artichoke sourdough, a jar of homemade jam, and two Yerba Mates (Enlightenmint, of course). It was at this time, sitting on the hood of his Subaru, scarfing down sourdough and jam, that we were finally able to unpack what had just gone down. “We really fucking did that.” One of us said. I don’t even remember who. But we did. And we did it together and you did get a sick one and that set I got really did double up on the inside and it was the local guy that called me a kook for ditching my board too close to him. 

That late morning in Pescadero, unpacking our session while filling up on bread, sugar, and caffeine, with the low sun warming us and the surrounding Northern California farmland, is still one of the best memories of my life.