Let's take the first bus out of here
I feel it happening again. The route I drive each day first turns into groove, then rut, before making it’s final transformation into trap. All the comfort repetition provides us from insurance documents, lawyer language, tax forms, road kill, junk mail, broken shoelaces and corporate snake charming we duel with daily, eventually taking its final form as the dreaded general malaise. And it is setting in again.
Relegated to my attic office space for the pandemic’s duration and into whatever we’re calling now, my daily commute is usually a pleasant one. It’s to the beach, to surf. My one big brush with the outside world during the week to experience it all first hand between the torture of digital communication appointments that make up the majority of life right now.
But that’s just it I fear. My drive to the beach to surf is becoming a daily commute. A repeated procedure in danger of losing its luster. Over a few bridges, past the oil fields, through the weapons depot, past the gated communities, the wetlands, a state park, another gated community and finally into the parking lot at the top of a squirrel infested bluff made of rebar and broken freeway they call The Cliffs. Oil platforms and oil derricks on both sides. Swarming with sloppy wet dogs and rinse kits and soft top design debates and litter. I love this place. It is everything. It is the local bodega to Lowers’ Whole Foods. I love my local waves and local friends and all the wackiness that makes my observational cup runneth over. Bukowski had the horse racing track, I have the cliffs. But after nearly two years without a real surf adventure to break up my trip to the surf bodega, I’m feeling a little restless. I have a feeling you might feel similar.
In much the same way I used to sit in the parking lot of my junior college and watch the airplanes take off to the south, dreaming of where I’d go if I could go, I now peruse this new travel site called Thermal and dream of where I’d go if I could go. The only difference now is I think I can (and should) go. Thermal is sorta like Kayak for surfers. Punch in locations and dates or just peruse the options before finding a credit card clear enough for takeoff and book it. My buddy used to say, “You’re not going anywhere until you book the flight. Then you have to go.” Do that and then the rest will sort itself out.
I put my young self in quite a bit of debt post-high school and college by traveling the world surfing with my friends and while I’d like to advise against that, I really can’t. My life’s pleasure has been climbing out of that debt. It gave me too much. Surf travel provided me with the toolkit of who I am and taught me how to operate when things leave our control — which is often the case. It grinded me to pieces at times — certain nerve endings may never be totally repaired — but so does an NYU degree. Debt and struggle are coming for you one way or another, might as well surf your way through it.
A surfboard is a key to the planet. Your board bag is a universal ticket to adventure, people, places, waves, food, drink, danger and bliss. It unlocks the bizarre. Introduces you to all the ways you can do life. All the ways to avoid the trap. The malaise. And it doesn’t take much. A surf trip doesn’t have to involve booking sites, airplanes or even a car. Just go the other way one day. —Travis Ferré
[Photography: Ryan Burch and Craig Anderson in the South Pacific by Nate Lawrence.]
