Winter. Freezing, cold, wet & dreary. Long breaks between surfs and even longer wetsuits to cover.
The night before, you get inspired. You watch some thrown together surf clip on instagram of guys up North and you think to yourself that getting up early tomorrow morning will be a good idea. An early nights sleep and the alarm goes off. Its fresh outside. Too fresh. Bed feels incredibly amazing, and the idea of a surf crawls regrettably into your mind. After much mind delegation, a shuffle towards the car and a comforting drive lead you to the car park where theres only two choices left. The ocean looks 10 degrees warmer than it is and the guys suiting up in the car park look at you with a sympathetic smile. I don’t know what takes over now; whether its natural instinct or an overwhelming sense of an open mind, but there seems to be more sense in doing anything else but gracing the water. And so, like the true individuals that us surfers are, we go against the grind and become more infatuated with the idea of surfing that morning than reality obeys. Its cold, it’s wet, the sun has taken a day off and the waves don’t even look that good. But if your heart`s there, you’re carried through, and the familiar feeling of contentment from out in the ocean comes flooding back, even just for a split second, before you take your first wave on the head and the reality of living down south sets in.