the surfing casino

February was a certified banger, at least as far as NorCal surf goes. I logged 36 hours in Mama ocean and 150+ waves, including a series of juicy racers that almost made me forget all the time spent getting ragdolled in sloppy surf.

The peak came at Pleasure Point. With well-overhead sets pumping and a thinner-than-usual lineup, I scratched into a handful of 30-45 second rides, connecting sections with smooth(ish) top-to-bottom turns.

Then it happened – that one wave where everything clicked. A clean drop into a wall that kept opening up. My body found that rhythm that can't be forced. Bottom turn, climb, drop, repeat. When I kicked out, I knew I'd banked something special.

I carried that high with me during a three-day trip to Denver, where I still found myself fiending for waves – sneaking 5x/day surf cam checks from my landlocked Airbnb. I returned to the coast frothing for more nugs, only to crash hard when the promising forecast turned out to be complete fantasy.

Now, here I am a few weeks later, with nothing but a string of bunk sessions in my rearview and wonky forecasts on the horizon. The memory of those February sessions has faded, leaving behind only a gnawing craving for something the ocean isn't offering right now.

It's during these inevitable lulls that I'm reminded that surfing, for me, often feels like a casino. Every paddle-out, another pull of the slot machine. Sometimes I hit the jackpot – that perfect peeling right, that day when everything clicks. But most sessions? Hours of effort for a few frustrating pop-ups on slammy closeouts.

The ocean, like the house, always has the last word – sometimes it's "here's that glassy wall you've dreamed of;" most times, it's just "not today, buddy."

Despite the recent doldrums, I'll keep feeding quarters into this salty slot machine. I am, after all, an addict.

But maybe it's the chase, not those rare moments of feeling like I've hit the jackpot, that really keeps me coming back.