I’ve never been inside a gym. Well, that’s a lie. Once, when I attended San Diego State University I joined the surf team and I had to pay my athletic fees inside one. After I paid my dues, the nice young woman behind the desk asked if I’d like a tour of the campus facility that I’d just been given membership to for being a college “athlete” — a state of the art offering that no doubt supported a variety of top notch competitors and maintained plenty of attractive, fit bodies between upholding our status as America’s premiere party school. “Nope, I’m good. I won’t ever be back, but thank you!” I can still remember the look on her baffled midwestern face. Surfers, eh.

I was reminded of this fact today when I pulled into the lot at my local “gym” today. The parking lot where I surf. My gym. My church. My therapist. My solitude. My watering hole. My everything. A similar place to a traditional gym; related activities do take place here — hairy old men steam under Rinse Kit showers, the young and fit run around in towels, equipment is strewn about and detailed stretching routines are underway wherever you look — but it's all maintained under different protocols.

I pulled into my usual parking spot — already thick with plumes of smoke that is no longer classified as illegal. A few “athletes” had already finished their session and were taking their supplements I suppose. I pulled up to the rail, took one look and could tell it was gonna be a good day. Peaks, a thick but manageable and friendly crowd, banter about how cold the water is (ice bath check!) and a lot of shiny happy faces. Friday at “the gym.”

Things got even better when I looked over and saw “Stingray” suiting up for his second session of the day. He’s a real gym rat. “Are you paddling out now?” he shouted across hundreds of feet of asphalt. “Yep!,” I assured him with a thumbs up. “Yes!” he shouted with a literal fist pump. Find yourself a trainer like Stingray — talk about setting the tone for a good surf. Health and wellness, check!

We dodged a bit of nature — the invasive, chemically altered woodland creatures formerly known as squirrels and scaled down the rebar and dirt that we are comfortable calling “cliffs” and paddled out. Cue the Ice Cube.

I bobbed around in the lineup today, listening to various conversations, having my own and shredding a few with our local crew and got to thinking about how I drone on about surfing going soft and not being a counter culture anymore. How it’s all been sterilized by wave pools, electric bikes, the Olympics, the industry and homeschool. But none of that was around today. Everything felt right. Peaks were split. Everyone was kitted out in local wetsuit brands, and most rode local shapes. Lot fashion was all aimed at supporting the homies — mostly construction tees, fire house hats, etc. They asked me for stickers. They offered up discount codes for gear they had the hookup on. And they said they can’t wait to read this tonight. So here you go, thanks for the lifetime membership to the finest workout facility in the world. I’ll take a wetsuit rash over ringworm any day.—Travis Ferré

Above photograph: Larry Sultan, Practicing Golf Swing, 1986]