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It was the type of pristine summer day down at the Jersey shore you never forget. The sand beneath my feet was only slightly discomforting — like quickly running across an asphalt basketball court shoeless rather than the usual feeling of methodically stepping on and eventually rolling around on the fiery embers of a cult’s initiation coal walk. An unordinary excess of real estate was readily available to be claimed. My family was able to lock down a plot of land big enough to lay down two whole beach towels and an umbrella before bumping into the next group over. The cloudy green, gas-streaked, and seaweed-abundant ocean was someone-pissed-in-the-bathtub warm with monstrous twelve-foot swells demolishing anyone who dared to enter its waters.
I watched as other children clenched for dear life onto a piece of styrofoam to stay afloat, the boards whiplashing uncoordinated, t-shirt-wearing dopplegangers of the fat kid from Rocket Power by the limbs they were velcroed onto. My old man gestured that we take this seemingly daunting task of entering the water upon ourselves.
“Don’t we need boogie boards?” my dewy-eyed, ignorant youthful self asked my father.
“No, son,” my stoic pops responded overlooking the horizon. “We’re not pussies. No need for tampons.”
It was on that fateful day that I was introduced to my love, my passion, my calling, my muse, and the very thing I was put on this planet to do: body surfing.
Women, family, friends, jobs, and dreams have all come and gone, but the one thing that has remained a constant in my life is the daily desire to go paddle out in search of the perfect wave with nothing more than some SPF 15 on my back. It’s a sensation of pure, unadulterated bliss. There’s nothing more exhilarating in this world than piercing through the water like a Mark 7 torpedo on a collision course to take out a Nazi submarine or Russian oil tanker.
If I had a choice of sex with any woman that would realistically sleep with me or gliding atop of the sea with the grace of the bastard child of Aquaman and that little Ariel mermaid minx, I’m going with the latter every single time. Not to mention, any female that sees you skullfucking the ocean into submission will immediately hop on your piece the second you step foot back on shore.
But us real body surfers don’t do it for the ladies. We don’t even do it for the money or fame. We do it because it makes us feel alive. We do it because it helps us capture inner peace. We do it because it’s just really easy to accommodate drinking into the mix. Show me someone who doesn’t like to throw back brews while drifting around and pissing on himself all day while working on a tan before propelling towards more beer on land like a great white launching out to snag a seal and I’ll show you a liar… or just a person that can’t swim.
It’s a religious experience. An erotic dance with danger. A conquest of Mother Nature unlike any other. And if you want to make the most of your summer, grab a cooler, hit the beach, and go master the ocean with sheer genetics..