Pray for Surf
Everyone keeps telling me to get a kettlebell. My wife. My acupuncture therapist. My chiropractor. My friends. My barista. My mom.
“You need something physical you can do when the waves are bad.”
They’re not wrong. All the benefits I get from surfing regularly — physical activity, therapy, confidence, routine, cold plunge, mental wellness, friendships, etc — are all neglected when I go through a stint of not surfing. Such was the case this week.
I even did the unprecedented and left the beach without surfing on two occasions due to lack of waves (and motivation) — despite knowing full well that even submerging myself in the ocean ever-so briefly would benefit my health and wellness greatly. I skipped it anyway.
This energy must radiate off of me because as the week progressed the choruses of “get a kettlebell” began again. Stronger than ever. Because everyone, including me, knows that physical activity is the best antidote to all the ailments I suffer from: writer's block, anxiety, stress, panic, frustration, hangover and grumpiness.
Some form of exercise that I could do at home in the garage would be beneficial. I’ve tried the prison workout. And yoga. But I just get bored, then feel awkward even when I’m alone in my own garage trying to touch my toes and jump rope. You might also remember that I’ve never stepped foot inside a gym and I don’t plan to make an appearance any time soon. An exercise class? No chance. My ego could never take it. And besides, what if I love my misery?
The problem with me is that the majority of my finest accomplishments have come on the backside of some form of angst and suffering. I kinda thrive on it. My music choices generally reflect this. The books I read. The wine I drink (Old World wine only). My dominant wardrobe color. All dark. All melancholy. Maybe that’s it? I just fucking love to brood.
Today someone asked me, “Of all the places you’ve traveled, where did you love surfing the most?” I get that question a lot. It’s always the same thing. I run through all the tropical locales. The romantic French beachbreaks. The Australian rivermouths and back beaches. The Indonesian boat trips. The Japanese typhoons. The cold Scottish slabs. The 15 year straight annual pilgrimage to Hawaii. I do a kaleidoscope viewing of all the great memories and always land on gloomy afternoons surfing alone in shitty beachbreak at home. Those surfs are “my favorite.” They are my moonlit walk in the park. My rooftop city skyline cocktail. My spa day. My runner’s high. My perfectly flawed back-alley beautiful.
So why didn’t I paddle out on those two gloomy days at home then? Why didn’t I partake in my favorite kind of surfing and prioritize my mental well being? Well, Where do you think I got this guitar that you’re hearing today? Sometimes the best thing I can do for myself is to burn in the water and drown in the flame. Otherwise, what on earth would I write to you about? The arrival of the new kettlebell I ordered on Amazon? I’ll spare you. Pray for surf instead.—Travis Ferré
[Above art: En Route to New Orleans, 1971 by William Eggleston]
