I pulled up to the beach this morning with less than zero expectations. I contemplated not even bringing a board down and just tossing the Yuccas in for a swim. It was a beautiful but “flat” morning and following a pretty memorable Santa Ana combo surf earlier this week (that may have even led to your author getting a sneaky shot on Surfline), beating that was out of the question and I was just trying to salt the eyebrows on a Friday.

My enthusiasm tanked even more when my pal got out and said he didn’t even make it to his feet, just paddled up the beach and back. Yikes. As he departed, warm and toasty in his denim jacket, ready to attack the day, I said, “Damn. I wish I was already at that point,” just thinking of my frozen trudge down to chilly water with no wave action and all the disappointment waiting for me down those steps. I had a long way to go to get there.

I was still trying to motivate, twisting stripped screws into a yellowed old faithful that I recently failed to sell on Craigslist. Might as well see if it has any magic left since it’s still mine. I cracked the fin box on my favorite board Monday and a bunch of my others got stranded in Micronesia so who knows if and when those will make it back to me. Then I was wondering how my suit could possibly still be damp and sandy after this winter heat wave of previous days. My morning was a snapshot of the surf industry landscape, I thought (because that's what I do): A supposedly fun thing that I’m not looking forward to. A popped red balloon, deflated and sad in the gutter. A rubber bummer of its former self. That's the current Surf Industry.

During my trot down to the water I noticed something. A clearly defined micro-mini sandbar, breaking on repeat, a little right handed two-hitter. Hmmm, interesting. That looks fun. Novelty, but signs of life. The surf turned into a 45-minute jam session. Nothing you’ll see in a Surfline photo gallery, but it boosted my morale, a curb slappy session of dreams. I feel like I snuck one over on everyone, surfing my own little Micro Machine V Land. As I walked back up the beach, having turned the tables on my pal, finding my own oasis, I continued my optimistic thinking about surfing.

To keep my industry analogy alive, the recent narrative across our little family is one of doom and gloom. Layoffs upon layoffs, re-organizing and all the wrong kinds of cutbacks. It’s enough to finally do-in an enthusiasm junky like myself. I was nearly back to thinking about popped balloons and how I felt pre-surf. But then I thought about what’s on the horizon and what I just found: a sneaky wave hidden in plain sight. We’re right there everyone. Expectations are about to reset. Time for a rebound.

I just got back from a historic surf contest that will potentially alter the way we see surf competition forever. And for the better. Among all the carnage around us are colorful bouquets about to bloom. The potential in the surf world is higher than ever. We have Al Cleland Jr. on tour now. He is Mick Campbell, Andy Irons (and yeah, they fought once), Martin Potter (80s version) and Taylor Knox bottled up and battling in his young heart. Young and fiery. Passionate and raw. We also have a women's surfing scene that is as exciting (if not more) than the men's. A whole bunch of new brands making quality gear, just getting their footing and ready to ride the rocket back to the moon (or Mars). There are people in high and low places more than willing to host the inevitable party (pick us!), despite all the bad apples and outside influences and lame algorithms attempting to extinguish what has always been a supposedly fun thing to do that is in reality even more fun than it supposedly is. We’re still here and we just found some helium. Hand me the balloons, it’s time to blow up.—Travis Ferré

[Above frame grab: From The Red Balloon, 1956]