I have more responsibilities today than I’ve ever had. In fact, I have more responsibilities today than I did yesterday. And yesterday I had more than ever before. The exponential growth of these responsibilities is life’s sneaky trick. But every now and then, even a guy like me — a guy with a daughter, a wife, his own company, family members, friends, “clients” and a house with weeds in the flower beds growing faster than his responsibilities list — has a moment when he can feel like the sandy carefree grom he once was, even if just for a few minutes.

Last Saturday morning I drove up to El Porto to surf a heat for my adopted surf team of Seal Beach in the West Coast Boardriders event. For my drive up I got a big mug of coffee and blasted every guilty pleasure from the “Surf Movie Classics” playlist. I felt like Frank the Tank four beers deep. Everything was going my way. No traffic, no worries and word on the street was that the contest bank was firing, glassy and 4-foot. But before it could begin: it began.

My early start rapidly burned away thanks to a ridiculous parking situation. 10am in El Porto. Rare sandbars, sunshine and a contest on. Unthinkably busy. After bottoming my car out in a dip/hill combo and watching sloppy wet dogs drool and shake in the parking lot of a weekend warrior Rinse Kit locker room, I quit struggling, drove a mile or two away and just parked it in no man’s land. This is when things get grommy.

I grabbed my board, tossed a moist wettie over it, an even damper towel, tucked a block of Fu Wax in my back pocket and started walking in my burnt out Cariumas. I was — for the moment — 16 again. The most organic kind of grom with not a single care in the world but getting down to the beach to ride waves. At least for the next hour. Forget the fact that I had a 40th birthday party with a formal dress code to attend that night and about 40 chores/errands for Sunday and a tax appointment on Monday. Right now, for this 15 minute walk, I was in the blissful state of “youth walking to the beach to surf.”

That would kind of be it for the blissful bit of gromhood actually. From there, things got how they were when I was actually 16. I had Timmy Reyes and Anthony Petruso in my heat — two dudes who repeatedly smoked me when we were kids. So it was with low confidence with which I sat out the back — with priority no less — waiting for the next set, certain Timmy would sell me on a shitty one. Which he did. But I did scramble back out and manage a 6.0 or something. Which was my goal. If only Anthony’s 9.4 and Timmy’s 9.6 were not in my way. While neither was a new responsibility, they took the same effect and snapped me back to reality.

The walk back to the car was a different kind of memory. I was running late by then. Everything was significantly wetter and sandier. I had a blister on my toe from a hole in my sock and it was uphill and hot now. The wax on my board melted into my arm and shirt. My phone was ringing with responsibility the whole walk back.

So as life and its wasp nest of troubles returned to my brain, I was reminded to be infinitely grateful for every surf experience — even ones like this. The “bummer” ones. They are the reason I welcome every new responsibility that comes at me. I always know I can tackle them all with grace thanks to surfing. Which is precisely why I make it my responsibility to do it every single day.—Travis Ferré