The Perfect Day

Nineteen seventy-eight. My friend, Woody, and I stood on the small dune across from the original location of the Holy Redeemer Catholic Church, Kill Devil Hills, looking seaward under a bright hot sun hung in a clear, blue sky. We had checked it in the morning---flat everywhere. We had a day off from waiting tables at A Restaurant By George, and I guess we hoped we could will something out there to be rideable. We just stood there saying nothing. I put my hands on top of each other on my head like a captured prisoner-of-war as sweat began to form on my brows and shoulders as we stared to the east.

It appeared to be the same as this morning until small lines showed on the horizon. We watched these waves from nowhere make what seemed a cautious approach to the beach, as there appeared none preceding them. We watched in silence seeming to both at once decide subconsciously that to speak might spook the potential magic before us.

The first wave presented a long upright face, shuddering and then feathering in a breath-light offshore breeze. It peaked, tossed itself outward into a curl and peeled off from the center, to the right and to the left. It just kept peeling off down the line, uniform and perfect on this perfect stage of sun and sky. Three or so waves followed this one in precisely the same manner.

It was difficult to judge their size as there was no one in the water. But it looked big enough. Without saying a word we trotted obediently back to the car to grab our boards. We waxed up and paddled out. We waited and waited and waited some more. Nothing. I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon, one hand shielding from the glare, water dripping from my fingers and into my sight.

Here it came after almost forever:the next set of waves was showing way outside. As they moved across the sandbar we both made a pick and took off. As I took off on a beautiful left, I could see the sand bottom passing below. The wave was shoulder high at this point---just fine.

Woody and I harvested wave after wave from each set. We got into a kind of rhythm which had us getting to watch each other ride a wave as we paddled back out. This was total stoke. There were small tubes and clear, warm water, and wave upon wave.

I noticed someone standing on the dune watching us and could tell by the silhouette it was my brother Jamey. He shrugged his shoulders extending his arms out away from his sides as a way of saying, "Where's the surf?" I signaled back with one index finger extended upward saying, "Just wait a little bit," which he did. The next set arrived and Woody and I each took off, flying down wave faces, him right me left. I kicked out, looked back over my shoulder to see what Jamey thought, and saw only the sand his feet flicked into the air as he had turned to run back to get his board.

The three of us surfed this swell for another hour or so. The perfect swell vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Over. Gone.

My bet is most surfers have a memory like this of a perfect day. We had nothing to explain why there was excellent small surf for around and hour and a half out of the blue that day. But there was, we were there to get it, and I suppose I'll remember it forever for who I was with, the crowd I wasn't with, and the perfect conditions. These days are what make us who we are over our years in the water. They permanently imbue us with the hope and faith that we can attain this focus and camaraderie again. We all understand how mercurial and fleeting these types of conditions truly are. They are as temporary as the human shells in which we live our lives. But demand we get their best when we find it.