I’ve never attempted to surf: I prefer that my water activities occur in flat, calm, chlorinated, shark-free zones, preferably heated to 76 degrees. I’ve waited on the sand while countless friends have donned wetsuits and set off in search of whatever they are searching for amidst the roiling dawn-tinted swells. I much prefer to lay back on the cool morning sand and listen to the sound of waves crashing heavily against the shore, closing my eyes against the rising sun and enjoying the warmth of the dancing light on my cheeks. I love to witness the repetitive paddle, pull, stand, ride, crash, repeat, while staying dry and warm myself. I’ve tried explaining to my dog that these crazy people in their wetsuits are actually out in that cold water on purpose, having fun, but she still thinks they ought to be rescued and strains against her leash, pawing furiously, afraid for the humans who, to her eyes, lack both fins and gills. In this case, I think she might be wrong. Most surfers I’ve seen just might have both, hidden under those well-worn wetsuits that hang out in the sun to dry during the day, waiting for the next dawn to come.

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