I talk a lot of shit on the summer months. I say hateful things like, “Endless Summer wasn’t even filmed in the summer!” and “I hate summer.” Hurtful things that summer probably doesn’t entirely deserve.

I fancy myself a winter goth who takes a corner booth in a dark bar with a candle over margarita salt sparkling in the sunshine every time. Glass of Old World red, thank you. I have cliche and predictable issues with summer regarding crowds, parking lot chaos, flat spells, June Gloom, tourists, dog walkers, south wind, heatwaves, afternoon onshore flow and I even get nitpicky about long lulls during Souhtwest swells and the strong current that accompanies straight South swells. It’s an ungrateful attitude and I find myself annoying and rather dull. Boo hoo.

Anyway, I was having a pretty rotten morning recently and I think it followed a pretty rotten evening and a rotten afternoon prior so it was a triple-up and I was in shallow water so the beating was substantial (and sandy). Even going for a surf presented itself as a burden and Bukowski’s method of “going to bed for 3 to 4 days” to shake some depression wasn’t exactly an option.

“What a lousy attitude you have!” I kept saying to myself. But it happens. So with the insistence of my loving wife, I forced myself down to the beach where I knew it would be shitty and it even turned out it was a Federal holiday (Happy Juneteenth btw) so the beach and parking lot looked like pandemonium…on a Wednesday. More egg yolk caked on as I closed in on the parking lots.

I strive to avoid chaotic situations that pit me against the General Public at peak hours and I pride myself on not striking out like this. But by then I had started to notice something resembling fun waves and a nice light crumble at a very late afternoon hour. Well, that’s rare…

Then I found a parking spot. Then I realized I had recently scraped my wax so my board looked sexy and had a fresh and clean bar of wax that was benefitting from from the cool of the car’s A/C. My wetsuit was dry and had been thoroughly rinsed. No meetings for the rest of the afternoon. I got suited up, grabbed my board that was looking like one of Kelly’s in ‘98 — clean and pointy and ready to qualify — and trotted across PCH.

There was hardly any available sand because it was full of girls suntanning in bikinis and guys playing various beach games and generally enjoying themselves. The lineup however, was empty, and it was…good? How did this happen? It’s summer. It’s like the first day of summer actually? Where are all the surfers in this crowded world?

I immediately felt overdressed and self conscious about my fullsuit. 70 degree water and string bikinis were the appropriate dress code and I was wearing something marketed as a “furnace.” But damn, it was kinda pumpin’. I jumped in, felt the rush of saltwater hit my face and literally watched a trail of egg and garbage wash from my body and soul simultaneously.

I belted three or four on my backhand and against all odds I even got…barreled? At post-2pm in Huntington beach in the summer. WTF? Might as well have just won the US Open. I came in buzzing. I assume all the girls on the beach had seen my waves and probably wanted me to sign a poster or something, and the guys must be ordering boards just like mine. When I got home, I cut some limes and made an ice cold margarita with extra salt and watched the sunset and belted a few bars of Sublime Summertiiiiiime….and the livin’s easy! I’m sorry for hating you for so long. I freaking love summer, dude. —Travis Ferré

[Above photograph: The Ocean Dome by Martin Parr]