My old man moved to California from the Midwest and got it in his head he was gonna be a surfer. Naturally, every time I visited, he dragged me out into the freezing AM water, too. I vaguely remember being told that being uncomfortable "builds character."
I sucked.
I couldn’t paddle.
I couldn’t catch a wave to save my life.
I mostly swallowed saltwater and thought, “This is dumb. I could be golfing.”
When I moved to Santa Barbara for college, he kept trying. And even later, living in Orange County, we’d meet up and surf — Ventura, San O, wherever — but honestly? I wasn’t feeling it.
Surfing was cold, early, and hard.
Golf was challenging, familiar, and rewarding.
Wasn’t a tough choice back then.
Somewhere after college, after moving up to L.A. to hustle for work, it finally clicked.
... Maybe it was surfing alone at Sunset Boulevard, watching traffic flow up and down PCH...
... Maybe it was realizing life’s a lot more serene when you’re floating in the ocean and not staring at a damn screen...
Suddenly, I got it. The cold water, the quiet, the paddle burn — it made sense. I wasn’t just out there for the waves. I was out there to get off the map, literally.
From then on, whenever I could, I was racking up my board and leaving my clubs in the car. I had finally found something else to chase at the crack of dawn... And it’s WAY more satisfying than any birdie.
These days, living landlocked in Central Illinois, my golf clubs see more consistent action than my 9-foot longboard, but the stoke hasn’t faded. I keep a magnetic digital countdown clock on my office whiteboard, ticking away the days until my next surf trip. Every time I glance at it, I’m reminded that the ocean’s still waiting… and I’ve got more waves to chase.