"Everything in Moderation, especially Moderation."

The first few weeks of 2023 were a bit excessive, no? The North Pacific sent a batch of wind and water so strong and overwhelming not even parched California knew what to do with it. It just barfed it all back up — water spewing from every orifice. Gutters, lakes, sewers, wetlands, streets and piers were flooding and crumbling under the onslaught.

This sort of thing really whips surfers into a frenzy. Even the most dormant surfer sees the Surfline forecast go “gold” and dusts off that yellowed M-BM step-up they bought on Craigslist in 2007 and hits the surf.

While many surfers did actually score waves that haven’t been seen or surfed in decades (see Surfline, Troy Eckert’s wave, Southside $€@I, once and for all “biggest ever” Blacks, etc) the reality is the majority of spots were overwhelmed. Which forces everyone on top of each other at the waves you can surf and leads me to wild bouts of anxiety and frustration — the kind where you know somewhere is good, yet you know everyone knows that too. “Rights Off Point tomorrow?” being a hallmark of the month.

To counter the January 2023 anxiety, I indulged in some excess of my own. Like old world red wine. Lots of it. Have you tried Spanish Gran Reserva? Divine. Movies…The Banshees of Inisherin. Feckin’ fantastic. Books. Ya gotta read Faith, Hope and Carnage by Nick Cave and Sean O’Hagan. And sleep. What! It’s been a while since I heard the pitter-patter of rain! Besides, I couldn’t be bothered explaining why I’m not worried about ChatGPT. January and all its damn wind, water, enthusiasm and algorithmic breakthroughs!

Sure, I surfed, I got some waves, I didn’t sit it out or anything. But the hyperbole that comes with an abundance of swell and weather unlocks a side of our culture that I dread. When the general public can tell ya that the surf’s been up…I worry…or hide. Or both. But do not pity me. Because this week, while everyone did ding repair on their step up M-BM’s and acted like the waves went flat and celebrated the return of the sun…I got my retribution.

When that much water and rain come through an area, swelling the rivers and drains and gutters, the sand moves. A lot. And it piles up in funny places. Sometimes hiding sick waves in plain sight. Or they’ll only appear at low tide. Or extreme high tide. Or in a place where you’d never thought to surf. And when you do find new waves, they do weird stuff that I find entertaining and they are extremely fleeting.

So to combat my lethargy to start the year, I been hunting sandbars like a gluttonous geological oceanographer to make up for it. Combing the coastline, usually in the pre-dawn dark, looking for any sign of a bank with an excessive amount of sand to obsess over until it’s gone. Which could be any second. We all have our vices.—Travis Ferré

Above artwork: [Port of Entry [Anagram (A Pun)], Robert Rauschenberg, 1998]