Surfing is elemental. A sport that doubles as a spiritual pursuit, surfing is a rhythmic dance on unbridled power. It has a way of stripping one down; when it’s just you and the ocean, the vastness of the blue horizon can be a daunting experience. You’re exposed, a solitary entity sitting at the edge of earth’s largest natural environment waiting for the culmination of innumerable forces that conspired hundreds of miles away to break its undulating energy onto you, alone with your thin slice of foam and glass. There’s a universal feeling within the surf family when cresting the dune, spying those first rollers of a set off in the distance: heart rates quicken—it’s on.
A practice of timing and positioning, competition is internalized. Each ride is a microcosm of action and reaction; force versus force; the release of energy that feels like an eternity, when in reality, 30 seconds is a hell of a ride—especially by South Florida standards. Surfing has the ability to overtake a life in an endless pursuit of finding that next ride. It’s more than a lifestyle, rather a way of life. Cliché, yes, but in practice absolute. It’s a pastime that dates back millennia—the Sport of Kings—and a pop culture phenomenon that’s continued for decades.
For those who surf, they get it. For those who don’t, they probably never will. You paddle out alone; ride the wave alone, unless some kook drops in on you; and wipeout alone, pulling at the water while tumbling below the surface. The story has always been a big part of the lifestyle, a nonchalant bragging of one’s exploits at the bar as board shorts dry and seawater seeps from your sinus. The tale of that ride of your life carries on for decades, always a little longer, a bit bigger each year; seasons and holidays are remembered by sessions (remember that epic swell Thanksgiving of 2006?); and broken and busted gear is saved to show your mates over a few cold ones, a tangible remembrance of how you faced down nature.
Florida, and its 1,200 miles of coastline, was destined for surfing. While the waves are sporadic at best, the inconsistency has produced some of the best surfers the sport has ever known (Kelly Slater anyone?), yet the Sunshine State’s perch in the surfing pantheon is still considered by many to be lower echelon—again, lackluster surf. But Florida has had its share of historical moments, monumental sessions (hurricane Joaquin produced some epic surf in October 2015), and influential characters (Sebastian is known as the birthplace of the aerial). Here, we would like to pay a little credit to Florida surf culture.
For the flat days—and believe me, there are quite a few of those during the summer—keep up that base tan with these no-swell beach activities.
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