Surf’s up, waves about as big as I’ve seen in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve been watching surfers reticently paddle out all morning. If you’ve been to some place like Southern California or Hawaii and watched, even for a minute, surfers surfing there, then watching these surfers is a disappointment. Yesterday, I watched beginning surfers surf wading waves, only they didn’t really surf them but rode the big fancy boards like boogie boards trying to learn to stand up. This morning, one or two have paddled way out and rode it back all the way in, but way too many of the neoprene-clad stand in the shallows waiting for something small to try to stand on.

I slept easily for 12 hours even though I wasn’t sleep deprived. Then, about an hour after I got up, a wicked headache came on—the kind that brings queasiness and appetite loss. These are rare experiences for me and I have no ritual for exorcising them, so I tried a number of things until I fell asleep again. When I woke, I was completely free of discomfort and realized I’d not felt well at least since waking up the first time, perhaps before. I dreamt at least two vivid dreams overnight and it was strange to have them, it has been so long. But having vivid dreams is a sign of sleeping a lot; dreaming is good. These were not pleasant dreams; one was anxiety-provoking and the other terrifying.

It was four o’clock before I was ready to do anything.

In the evening, on the north side of the beach, the surf swelled to Hawaii levels and the surfers collected in the turmoil in greater numbers than the people occupying the beach. I sat on the beach and watched for a long time. Until sundown, surfers with their boards continued to stream out of the woods along public access trails and looking a lot like ants carrying treasure back to the nest. Each one wore a black wetsuit that covered neck to ankle. It reminded me of some medieval army. Not a wave crested that didn’t have someone standing upright on it. Many of these surfers, in contrast to the morning bunch, were very good and demonstrated amazing feats, covering the long lengths of the waves in swirly carves and popping back up over the crest before the wave flattened out. Some of these were so fast at regaining the board that only one swell passed before they grabbed the next one.

I like the wetsuits. No one goes in the water here without wearing one. The suits are tight and reveal with more contrast to the surrounding environment the individual shape of each person. But because they are protective and utilitarian the activity at hand seems serious—it is the more important thing. The sexiness then, appears incidental, and for me, therefore, actually sexy.

Surfing is a sport I never consider learning only because it doesn’t really occur where I live. But I like surfing when I see it and think that I would like to try it. But trying it, like trying anything, requires consistent practice; the opportunity to do that from Seattle doesn’t exist unless you structure your life around making it happen. I like that all you need is a board and a wetsuit. The arena is perpetual yet inconsistent—and access is free and freeform. It’s not like skiing or snowboarding where runs are groomed and expensive lift tickets are mandatory. And I prefer surfing here to surfing in Hawaii. The cultural barrier to entry in Hawaii is too high.