Holy Water: Surf & Soul on the Jersey Shore

Jersey, 4th of July (Shred White and Blue) — Fourth of July vacation could not come soon enough. The monotony of my low-paying summer job finally caught up with me, as did the two weeks of rain Boston lucked out with. I had to get out of the overcast city and into some radiant sunlight.

With a week and some change on my hands, I decided to take a trip down to the Jersey shore. I figured my grandparents could put me up for a couple of nights and maybe I might even get some home-cooked meals. I needed to get away and besides, my surfboard hadn’t seen light in weeks.

As I loaded a duffel bag into my worn Jeep outside of my building, a maintenance guy inquired about the longboard bungeed to the roof. He asked if I was headed to the Cape. When I replied no, I’m driving down to the Garden State, he scratched his head and retorted, “Who in their right mind would CHOOSE to go there?”

I would. Masshole.

On the ride south, I stopped in my suburban, Connecticut hometown to get some gas. While I watched the number of dollars coming out of my pocket triple the number of gallons going into my tank, an old leathery man pulled up alongside me on a scooter that didn’t appear much younger.

Looking up at my board, he spat a wad of Copenhagen juice on the pavement and nodded as if in approval.

After collecting his thoughts, he proceeded to mumble, “I used to ride somethin’ like that down in Wildwood” and off he went. As I climbed back into my car, I couldn’t help but think that I was just in the presence of a legend. He just seemed to possess that wise aura.

The rest of the drive I put on a playlist ranging from The Beach Boys and Dick Dale to Southside Johnny and The Boss in hopes of satisfying my seaside craving. After a straight shot over the Tappan Zee Bridge, I entered the parkway for the final stretch. I finished one of those short daydreams that you inevitably experience cruising on a highway to notice that I was only on Exit 129, and my exit was 10. However, my mood had been convalescing ever since I left Beantown and not even the condescending taunt of every exit sign could dampen my spirits.

When I eventually passed a sign that read, “Now Entering Atlantic County,” a fresh breath of salty air rushed through the car, and I couldn’t help but smile. I was almost there. In that epiphanic instant, I was able to forget any and every responsibility I ever had, and damn did it feel good.

As if on cue, my playlist switched to “The Boys are Back in Town” when I pulled off to the boulevard and crossed the fishermen-littered bridge onto the little beach island. I found a parking spot right in front of the house, spent a little time catching up with my grandparents, then made the 30-second trek to the beach. I climbed the small hill over the dunes and picked out a small opening of sand amongst the thousands of pastel umbrellas.

It was not difficult to doze off as I marinated in the sun and let my exhaustion get the best of me. When I awoke, the beach was still fairly populated though it was apparent the afternoon was waning. Not much later, the lifeguards blew their final whistles and motioned for the swimmers to retreat back to land. This was the universal signal to surfers that the water was now theirs, so I pulled on my rash guard and leashed up.

The task of paddling out usually seems tedious, but that day it took no effort whatsoever. Every stroke brought me closer to ecstasy, and before long I was straddling my board waiting for the first wave. The serenity during this interval was priceless, but a crest beckoning a ride suddenly interrupted it. I dropped in and allowed the energy of the earth to push me for an invigorating ride all the way to the sandbar.

I jumped off prematurely to protect my fin from running aground, and as the ocean engulfed me, my existence seemed to enter slow motion. There I was, every inch of my body surrounded by water, completely deaf and free from gravity. For that single moment, I was somehow one with the world and yet one with myself. I felt as if I had reached the equilibrium of solidarity and solitude, and for the first time in my life I found the unity in metaphysical duality.

While this underwater contemplation seemed to last a lifetime, it was indeed only a moment long and before I knew it I surfaced for air. I continued to ride the short and choppy Atlantic swells the rest of the week. Everyday at 5 o’clock, my faithful board and I sprinted from land to our instinctual habitat.

That Saturday night, I enjoyed the company of some longtime buddies while sitting in the 80th Street field watching fireworks. We caught up on the past year and recounted the glory days, which I continue to pray are not over. Soon, we were swallowed up by the oohs and ahhs of the crowd while Pomp and Circumstance played somewhere in the background.

I looked down at my shirt, a first edition Shred White and Blue tee, and thought to myself, this is what it’s all about. I was proud to represent a company founded on the principles of brotherhood and patriotism. Even the yin yang design of the logo embodied the same duality I had conquered earlier in the week.

Surfing has allowed me to gain a greater appreciation for myself and my life in a context that only nature can reveal. I hope that through my efforts with Shred White and Blue, I can share this passionate discovery with the world.