“You shoulda been here yesterday.” A surfer’s existence isn’t complete without some nagging reminder that the best waves and conditions aren’t where we currently find ourselves. Or…maybe more torturous, we’re in the right place, but the timing is (barely) off. Few words cut as deep, knowing full well that something unexplainable stood between you and, well, waves that were better than those currently on offer. Our lizard brains love to deliver this news to a passerby in the lineup, but we are heartbroken when we’re on the receiving end of it:
“You shoulda been here yesterday.”
A week ago I was in New York City to attend an event — a film screening for a CT athlete in one of the two cities I’m absurdly in love with but don’t call home (I have a “unique” infatuation with Las Vegas, too). I figured I’d be in town for three, four days at most, slap some high-fives, work from the road, and enjoy as much of my time in the city as possible. Working for a surf-focused media outlet doesn’t suck.
“Why don’t you see if you can stick around an extra day or two after the screening,” Joe, our Senior Editor suggested on the phone. “You love the place. Get on the subway. Head out to Long Island. Find some waves. And come back with a story.”
I was intrigued. Because for as energizing and creatively invigorating as I find the town to be, the one thing that’s always kept me tethered to Southern California has been my attachment to surfing…or at least surfing the way I’m used to. Until a few months ago, I lived blocks from the beach; a quick skate or a bike ride on a whim. I don’t own anything thicker than a 4/3. I don’t wear booties. Or a hood. Ever. Don’t have to, don’t want to.
So, “Could I Live Like This,” didn’t sound like a terrible thing to call a work assignment. How do New York surfers feel about getting on a train multiple times a week to trek from Manhattan to places like Lido or Rockaway for waves? Do they suddenly only surf when there’s swell or worse, the perfect combination of swell and favorable winds? Do they eventually find themselves lucky to get in the water even once a week?
I looked at the surf report for the next three days. Nothing.
A casual mention of that same first-person narrative to a photographer and a couple of Jersey natives at the evening’s event perked things back up. There’d be a small window of opportunity Wednesday morning and a couple of places worth rolling the dice on if I was up for an adventure, they said. I texted Joe. Maybe there was hope. Change my return flight and find another place to stay for an extra night or two. Borrow some gear. Come back with that cliched surfer-on-subway with board imagery and an essay. Maybe score?
The logistics seemed too complicated, though. At the very least, it was too complicated for mediocre surf. A “slight bump” of swell doesn’t a great story make, so yeah, it was too complicated to change a flight, find new accommodations, and figure out how to get my hands on gear while that never-ending to-do list got longer back home.
I honest-to-God never looked at the forecast beyond Thursday. None of us did that night, not even the city diehards and Jersey regulars in attendance as we plotted a potential midweek hunt. It rained Tuesday. I spent Wednesday in the city. Thursday, we jumped out to “a hill town, not a mountain town” in Vernon for about 90 minutes of making turns in East Coast snow melting like shaved ice, and then all the way back to JFK for an evening flight west. No waves. No taste of the draining beach break barrels that make a hypothetical life brimming with 90-minute subway rides seem really, really worth it. I was back on the ground and in my own bed in Los Angeles by early Friday morning.
Twenty-four hours later, Long Island and Jersey lit up like a Christmas tree. Photo evidence provided above.
“I was toying all week whether to drive down to New Jersey Saturday morning since the swell seemed to be solid there as well,” photographer Brian Shannon wrote after emailing a handful of offensively mind-surfable images. “I stuck with my gut though, and headed out to Lido West on Long Island, and it certainly didn’t disappoint…It was definitely one of the best days I had seen in the Northeast for some time.”
Coulda used a pep talk from you Monday night, Brian.
Now I know the one thing more painful than hearing, “You shoulda been here yesterday”:
“You shoulda been here tomorrow.”
Editor’s Note: You can follow photographer Brian Shannon on Instagram, here.
