Shaking the Snowglobe

It’s boiling this week in New York City, humid and unrelenting. This weekend will hit 100 degrees and everyone I know is making their way to the water somehow, someway. My face is a little pink from a near day long beach hang down in the Rockaways yesterday, currently cooling off from a layer of Aloe and air conditioning. It was not so long ago though, that we were surviving tundra; a blizzard followed by sheer cold conditions froze over the sidewalks and parks, keeping everyone indoors shivering.

The move back to the east coast from California has been largely amazing. I love the ease of community here in the city, but the obvious loss is the natural beauty that used to rest just beyond my doorstep. As inspiring as the concrete jungle can be, it can be hard to escape the dusty, construction ridden trappings that fuel all the hustle and bustle. I missed the ocean.

In San Francisco I would swim along cliffsides, or next to seals by the marina, drinking up the briny cold Pacific waves. I remember some of the first cold water swims I took, before I knew about wetsuits. I would get out of the water in a speedo, shivering, and call my then roommate Rob to run a hot bath. Probably veering on hypothermia, I would collapse back into our apartment and crawl tooth and nail to the scalding tub, thawing into a bodily temperature equilibrium balanced by sensational intensities on either end of the spectrum. It was blissful but a little ridiculous, and I gradually learned the ways of neoprene suits and hoods, and took on a more relaxed ocean routine, introducing many of my friends to the wonders of the cold bay waters. And meeting guides to some of the longer, more exposed and beautiful swims around the city. 

New York has amazing beaches down in the Rockaways. I biked down there with friends for a day in the sun last summer, we took the Rockaway Rocket back home to Greenpoint. California has incredible access to the beach, I lived a five minute walk from one while living in the Inner Richmond, but down in the Rockaways is that classic beachside culture. Boardwalks and melting ice cream and city-goers shedding their work uniforms for bathing suits. 

I heard somewhere along the way that the winter in Rockaway brings some of the best waves, and with it a special community and culture of thick wetsuit warriors that brave the cold to have a little fun in the water in the middle of winter. Feeling cooped up in the middle of January, desperate for a respite from the typical routine of gym to office to home to sometimes bar with friends, I asked a pal to come down with me to surf in the snow. He obliged, and we ventured off to Breakwater Surf Shop.

To survive the cold, you need a hooded wetsuit five millimeters thick, neoprene gloves or mittens sometimes seven millimeters thick, and booties. My friend and I rented the gear and spent ten sweaty minutes pulling on sleeves and finger coverings and strapping ourselves in, then trod out to my car looking like two explorers on a scuba journey through uninhabited lands. 

There was one other group of crazies out there with us, four guys roughly our age that knew each other through church. Makes you question how cool a church could be! We all jumped into the water, wetsuits shielding off the freezing temps. But soon a wave would plow through your face on the paddle out to sea, and your jaw learned the secret that the rest of your body was blissfully ignorant to. It was freezing. I also realized I had done my gloves wrong. You’re meant to pull the glove’s bottom over your wetsuit sleeve to snatch it all down, leaving no room for non-skin-tight adherence. Cold water was rushing into my gloves, numbing out my hands. My friend had made the same mistake, and nervous that we might bow out earlier than expected from the hand-cold, I suggested we return to the beach to adjust, however difficult that sounded. We did, and it probably bought us another forty five minutes in the water. Soon, it started to snow all around us, large flakes texturing the water like celebratory confetti. 

On the return to the car we were in a bit of shock from the adrenaline and pure joy of going for waves. Soon though the reality of our numb fingers settled in, and a howling pain as blood returned to the ghost white tips became our sensational reality for a few minutes. You kind of just have to embrace the overwhelm of that feeling for a little while. We dropped off the gear, dried off, and drove home with our little secret that we had surfed that morning. And proceeded to tell everyone we knew in as lowkey a way as possible.

Turned out my friend was more of a one time winter adventurer, but something in me latched on. The idea that in the midst of this endless winter, I could escape to the ocean and be in nature, have that unbridled joy that comes to me in the water, was intoxicating in the best way. I took the subway down, about an hour and twenty minute journey door-to-surfshop, and would pester my friends with cars, taking any chance to get down to the shore. 

You meet great people this way. Anyone willing to trek down to the beach in the cold just to be more cold for no other reason than that sounds kind of fun to them is going to at least have a story to tell. As I went down more and more, I found a small community of New Yorkers making the most of any situation just to get a little closer to surfing. A whatsapp group chat eventually led me to a new surf community spot, opened up by a hard working, joyous couple that braved the entire winter living on a boat in one of the Rockaway harbors. They had taken over an old barber shop that offered surf lockers and a makeshift sauna to build a community space, complete with coffee and an inclusive event schedule. 

I told my friend that over time I would get more “dialed into” my Rockaway experience. The first time I went I rented all my gear, put it on incorrectly, and probably got way too cold. I also caught zero waves. (That I returned despite not even successfully surfing the break was a helpful hint that I really wanted to be there). Slowly, I acquired some of the winter gear on my own, and my own board, all through little community forums attached to this community space and another whatsapp group of New York surfers. Everyone seemed incredibly willing to help newcomers, and share the gift of safe access to this break. 

Fast forward to this past weekend was hot, and the first time that going into the water sans suit was at all appropriate. Shorts, a rash guard shirt, and a board were all you really needed to soak up the joy at Rockaway. Being in the water, laughing and smiling looking down the line towards beginners on foam boards and expert veterans on long hardtops, I had a moment of gratitude for the small choices I had made that put me there at that moment. 

A week ago, I went to see Jack Johnson’s new film called SurFilMusic (read Surf Film Music…I’m not a big fan of the name lol), which was a really great documentary showcasing just how awesome Jack’s life has been. He went from pro surfer to surf film maker to internationally recognized musician. Amazingly, he showed up before the film to give a brief intro to the theater, and in he walked shaved head and charismatic presence, holding an acoustic guitar. “Hey everybody I’m Jack, I hope you enjoy the movie I made with my friends. I thought I’d sing you a little song, you can feel free to sing along.” He sang Better Together as the theater hummed along. At one point he stopped singing and laughed, telling us that he couldn’t help but giggle at a guy who was stuffing his face with popcorn in the front row, and smiling at him. 

Just as he finished singing, a guy next to me and I fist bumped, the only appropriate reaction to the awesomeness observed. He looked vaguely familiar, with bleach bond surf weathered hair. A couple days later I realized who it was. Salty Pete. Salty Pete was a Rockaway surf chat regular poster, sharing tips and helpful answers to questions people would pose to the group. He also had a youtube channel, Salty Pete TV. I DM’d him on WhatsApp, “Hey man…any chance we fist bumped at the Jack Johnson show?” and it was indeed him! 

We got to talking, he offered lessons, and I took him up for one the next morning at Rockaway. I arrived on time at 8:30am to his blue van parked on Beach 108th street on a balmy, sunny morning. The waves looked clean and small, perfect for me. Salty Pete had to let the Verizon guy into his new bungalow, and to help some folks who had rented boards from him get their foamies out of his van, and to set up his kite tent on the beach…he wasn’t in the water until probably 9:20. But that added to the fun of it all. Eventually we were out there together, no one else at the break, waves breaking cleanly and softly in the sun. We joked that we should have messaged Jack Johnson to come surf with us.

I spent yesterday at Beach 67th street with Daniel and a couple of his new friends from his boxing gym (Daniel could write the equivalent of this article but from a boxing perspective), playing around with a couple of surf boards and throwing a frisbee in the sun. There was a Rockaway Surf Film Festival over at the community space, and I had noticed the projector screen was still up when I went to grab the board that morning. I knew from the WhatsApp group that Salty Pete had shown a trailer for his upcoming film Stoke Monsters, and I found the trailer on YouTube and shot him a WhatsApp message when I got back home from the beach day feeling sun crisped and tired. 

Pete thanked me and asked if I could leave a comment on the video. He also told me a fun story. While my friends and I were at Beach 67th street, Jack Johnson ran into Salty Pete and his blue van over on 108th, and asked if he could rent a board from him, as he was staying at the Rockaway Hotel with his daughter. They surfed a few waves together, and Jack happily agreed to take part in a short video on Salty Pete TV.

There is the minor bummer that I didn’t get to 108th and meet Jack Johnson, and surf with him. And there is the way truer and more human feeling of, isn’t it amazing to have lived in New York City and a story of my life the past two weeks was knowing about this small world, very real life, interaction. It’s the kind of story that can come when you spend time in a place, a neighborhood, a community, and take the moment to fist bump the human you see next to you for the singular reason that hey, isn’t it neat that we’re doing this together? Isn’t this a wild moment we’re both spending time in right now?

And Jack might have said it best. It’s so much better when we’re together.