The coldest, grayest, loneliest surf ever

And today, my very first day back surfing in New York, I essentially went from 78 degrees and sunny to 28 degrees and bleak.

I saw a little tiny wave in the morning from my window, in defiance of Surfline's purported flatness (hah!) and watched it build all day. One guy out. Two guys out. Would I go if it got big enough? Would I! It's been so, so long!

So I did some work and watched it, and when the tide got low I dropped the work and went.

Ah. I'd practically forgotten why I live at the beach. Now I remembered.

Yeah, I can still surf.

One guy went in shortly, and then the other. The sky was completely iron gray and so was the water. It was hard to tell the difference, hard to discern what was wave and what was sky. There was not the slightest hint of sun or warmth. Though there wasn't much wind, the water was freezing. Once I was alone in the water, it felt like the coldest, grayest, loneliest surf in recent memory, and probably in forever.

And yet, you know, it wasn't unfun for such a bleak day. I got some rides. I worked on getting up not too early and not too late. I succeeded. The rides weren't long, but they were rides. My thoughts were as melancholy as the day. I had music playing in my head, but I couldn't remember when or where I had heard it, and that was distressing. I couldn't figure it out. I got more rides. My fingers and toes began to freeze. I only lasted an hour and a half, very unusual for me. I think it was the gray lonely day that made me cold as much as the water.