I usually go against doctor’s orders. Ibuprofen with my wine. I rarely make it through all the antibiotics. I’m never getting that flu shot and I’m probably not coming back to get my stitches out (I’ll take it from here). I like the fatty part of my steak a lot and I have at least twice as many drinks a week as I tell the doc.

Come to think of it, I actually go against most orders. I’m not flossing as much as I say I am, I don’t stretch or workout and the one that really freaks people out: I always surf after it rains.

I promise I’m not falling apart. In fact, I consider surfing after a rain part of my wellness routine. Some have Eastern medicine, spiritual gurus, men's cults, shrinks, cold plunges, sauna time, WaveKi, Ballerina Farms or Andrew Huberman. I have sewer-made sandbars.

When I have dysentery tomorrow I may regret telling you all this, but what I’m about to do gives me strength. It gives me strength on July 14th when the wind is sending white caps into the bay, and smog and humanity are choking out the coast and there hasn’t been a bump in swell for three weeks. I need today for that day. Not to mention the other benefits — a stronger immune system and all the usual physical and psychological ones that come with surfing.

Surfing after the rain is purifying — even if most define it as disgusting. It feels right to me. The child in us comes out. It’s already wet, might as well suit up! I will likely be nearly alone. The sand and swell will be cluttered, tossed around and hectic from the storm but that just makes everything more interesting. There will be a fowl muck built into the foamy whitewater, and a mound of disgusting bits of humanity, driftwood and gutter to ponder on the sand. I will be careful making my way through it and I will throw away as much as I can safely carry. But this is all part of it. I need to see this, not avoid it.

It’s actually interesting how few people will wade into this endeavor. And I’m not an advocate (stay away!) I’m just letting you in on a little secret. This is my own personal ceremony.

Let me walk you through it live. I just pulled in, the wind is offshore and the parking lot is nearly empty. A few people walking dogs under umbrellas. One core lord suiting up and giving me the “looks fun, what rain?” nod. Anyone driving past will point and watch me put my wetsuit on soaking wet. It is comical, I admit. Once secured in my damp wetsuit, I’ll rub this wet bar of wax on my board feeling like Bodi in Point Break. I’m doing something special. It may only be 4-foot and pretty fun, but with the ominous clouds and lack of humanity this feels special. Verboten even. Which is exactly why I loved being a surfer in the first place. We’re sick.—Travis Ferré

[Above art: El Ejido, 2017 by Andreas Gursky ]