New England sea smoke. Photo: Brian Landergan
Dawn casts an eerie light on the sea smoke coming off the water as I drove up the coast. The air temp read a bitter -8 °F. The sea, a balmy 36 °F, causing the sea smoke to hover over the sets rolling in. It didn’t take long to find the spot that was going to be mine that morning; a right, rocky point break and one of New England’s best-kept secrets.
I slipped my hood and gloves on while I pumped the heat in my dirty, old, salt encrusted CR-V. I cursed after snagging the butt of my still wet 5mm wetsuit on the screen door as I left my house that morning. It only compromised of one layer so I presumed it was okay. A little hole in a wet suit is not a big deal when you know you’ll be taking some on the head and the icy water will flush your suit.
With my leash frozen stiff, wind trying to grab my board, and cheeks frozen into a huge perma-grin, the sea smoke somehow made it all look more inviting. Thigh-high snow covered the ground to the entry point. At least the wind was at my back. In some spots, a sheet of ice made the snow hard enough to walk over without falling in. The small, jagged rocks lining the break had a thick layer of ice over them, creating a wobbly and almost comedic entry since the water on my booties froze almost immediately. Ice on ice on rock with a board catching the howling winter wind will make you laugh at yourself.
Freezing but on fire. Photo: Bryan Nicholson
The first duck dive took my breath away as the next wave crashed on me before I had time to catch it. “Keep moving, keep moving, paddle, paddle,” I silently repeated. These weren’t exactly clean waves either. More like New England storm surf chop akin to one of those arcade games where you whack the mole on the head. Wave after wave dumps on you. But sometimes waiting longer isn’t an option, especially if you’re planning a double.
In those conditions, I could last only about an hour to an hour and fifteen. That is, if I never stopped paddling. And on this morning, that was easy. The ocean was swirling, staying in position was next to impossible. As sets came in, the waves were hard to catch, as the wind shot from the shore. When they came, they were short, fast, and fun as hell.
The cold water crashed onto my head and flushed my suit. I stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth in a mostly futile effort to stop the ice cream headache. My life was new again. But as the world around me became slower, I knew it was time to get out—hypothermia is a nasty beast. I’d come close before. Almost too close.
The exit point is a ways from the car and requires navigating over a slew of ice-covered rocks. My suit, gloves, booties, and what little hair I had sticking out of my hood froze almost immediately. A human popsicle carrying a board over frozen rocks is a funny thing. The pain was quickly draining me, but I think there was still a smile there, though it was fading fast. I made it to the car and pumped the heat again in a desperate attempt to defrost myself.
“Why?” friends often ask me. “Why go in the ocean when it’s that cold?” I never had much more of an answer other than it was the only thing that made perfect sense. I’ve surfed through several New England winters, but this winter was different. I moved into a rental right across from the beach by myself into a small town that was sparsely populated in the winter. I looked at the house in September and immediately wrote the check for the first month’s rent and signed a lease through May. Seeing a wave out front would humble me over and over again that fall and spring, especially during that long winter. It would refine me just like that whole stretch of frozen coastline would.
I guess Doc was right when he said, “When I kept surfing, surfing kept me.” That winter I kept surfing at a level I hadn’t yet experienced, and it changed the trajectory of my life. You might know what I mean.
