Evan peered from his sleeping bag into the dawn. Damp chill washed over his face. Seagulls frittered about the shoreline, eyeing him as a potential scavenge. He retreated to his cocoon and savored the cozy stupor for a minute before emerging onto the sand.
He stomped for circulation and hobbled toward the ocean. Onshore wind burrowed down and scraped his bones. His body ached from yesterday’s trudge. He rubbed his back, cursed Gordon, and understood why so many employees quit after three weeks.
The morning light was soft and grainy, the eastern sky streaked orange. A wind-swell rumpled the Pacific. The water looked murky and frigid with upwelling; undoubtedly a cold and difficult paddle, ice-cream headaches and muscle fatigue. A surf, no matter how marginal, would clear his head. Bury the bullshit. Nobody could tell him how to ride waves. But the prospect of sliding into a damp wetsuit made him shiver. A coastal drive with doughnut, coffee, and blasting heater held more appeal. He decided based on the calculus of lethargy: the ocean had to offer waves sufficient to justify his suffering. It didn’t.
Evan approached his wagon and glanced toward the water. The breeze went slack. A wave peeled to the sand. Clean, symmetrical. For a moment the ocean turned smooth and inviting. He leaned against the hood and scratched his belly, wishing he hadn’t seen the wave. Inertia battled escapism, his inner loafer thumb-wrestling his cosmic drifter. Another glassy wave taunted him. Done. He slipped into his tattered wetsuit, grabbed his surfboard, and paddled out.
Thirty feet off the beach, he ducked under the first wave. Gallons of Pacific Ocean penetrated a wetsuit hole and rushed down his back. The set persisted and so did he. Endless paddling. His head numbed, arms jellied. Three weeks of hole-digging stabbed his right shoulder.
Though usually a tough paddle, Solitude Beach never denied him access. This was his spot. He knew it intimately, had mastered its moods. He’d seen others flail in the tricky current while he paddled by unscathed. But this morning he verged on collapse. Defeatist thoughts crept in. The car heater beckoned. No. He summoned the old resolve and paddled west. He crested a final wave and saw flat horizon. A few more strokes and he straddled his board in calm water.
Evan caught his breath and glanced around. The sheer mudstone wall flanking the cove loomed in the gathering light. Bright domes of alder and dark spires of Douglas-fir lined the canyons. Coastal terraces were covered in grassland, foothills textured with scrub. Pasture and farmland checkered the valley. Not a soul was visible. Few people surfed Solitude Beach. A dozen better spots dotted the local coastline. For years, Evan and his dad had mostly soloed the place. It had a mystique, a reputation as a heavy spot not to be trifled with. They took pride in it, an inside joke. A secret for which they were the sole trustees. Now Evan guarded it, alone, like the last survivor of some lost civilization.
Lines on the western horizon pulled him from thought. He dropped into the first set wave, turned, and streaked forward ahead of a whitewater avalanche. Wind bit his cheeks and stung his nostrils as he carved across the wave contour. The wave barreled fast and long until it collapsed in a slurry of water and sediment. Rather than hazard another paddle, he straightened out, dropped to his stomach, and rode whitewater to the beach.
He stood on the sand and studied the ocean, marginal at best, one wave and out. But he felt recharged: a few minutes of respite, a few minutes of truth.
He issued a curt, satisfied nod. “Good enough.”
