What kind of idiot would leave this to go find waves elsewhere? Shea Lopez, in the right spot at Sebastian Inlet. January 2007. Photo: Dick Meseroll

In This Issue

"Stop wasting all your time with running around the town... Settle down, settle down my boy, settle down..." -Men At Work

One of surfing's most fundamental caveats is knowing when to stay put. It goes something like this: You never, ever leave waves to go find waves. "But it might be better somewhere else," you reason. "Cleaner, shallower, bigger..." The rationalizations bounce against the inside of your skull like starved piranha trapped in a goldfish bowl. But as difficult as it may be, you must ignore every impulse telling you to go have a look elsewhere. No one has this law on lock like the East Coast surfer. Because we know all too well that once you start getting greedy and consider yourself above what's right in front of your face, you initiate a woeful chain of events that seems impossible to break. Leave waves to find waves, and what you'll find is the tide has filled in, the wind has switched, the swell has died. And by the time you return to paddle out where you had your first look, well... of course by then it's gone.  

I got a bitter taste of this in January, when for my three-week vacation I opted to leave my adopted home in Central Florida for the Outer Banks, the place from whence my life as a surfer began. The thing is, there was already a rather promising swell brewing down here from a surprise low pressure system. In fact, by the looks of the wind forecast and the tightly packed isobars on Bouyweather.com, it was setting up to be damn-near epic. And with the boss dog of all Brevard breaks, Sebastian Inlet, being an effortless, 10-minute drive from my house, I knew what I was risking, but booked my ticket to North Carolina regardless. I was just too caught up in romanticizing the winter surfing experience, after all, I was raised in it.  

Pardon the chest-thumping, but I like suiting up in a hood, gloves, and 5-mil booties. I adore pulling into dense, brown, sediment-caked beachbreak barrels as brisk offshores whistle across the Pamlico Sound. I look forward to the solitude of charging with only one or two of my closest pals, followed by that weird buzz I get driving home -- hands shaking and teeth chattering as all the blood in my body re-circulates itself. I just love that shit. Ironically enough, the East Coast winter warrior truly understands the art of staying put, denying tropical sojourns to Bali, Puerto Rico, Panama, or Hawaii in exchange for a freezing, empty piece of heaven folding a few steps from one's front porch. And I was ready for my dose. Oh, I bragged to my friends in Florida about all the sick tubes I was gonna thread, all the striped bass I was gonna catch, all the ducks I was gonna shoot... And I went on and on expressing just how noble I was for spending my vacation in North Carolina instead of Bali, Puerto Rico, Panama, or Hawaii. How this was so much more meaningful, so much more core. 

Two weeks and nearly a grand in plane tickets, car rentals, and excess baggage fees later, and my surfboards never even left my bag. It was freezing, sure. It was desolate, too, just as I expected. It was also mercilessly flat the entire time I was there -- the first time I've ever been skunked on a trip. And with this being the first real cold snap during one of the warmest winters in memory, there were no stripers to catch. Not to mention, most of my friends were gone on real surf trips of their own, leaving me wandering the barren dunes like a stray mule in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. At some point, my friend and ESM Assignment Writer Jon Coen even text messaged me, "Did you bag any ducks at least?" To which I replied, "The only birds I caught were Mother Nature's middle finger and a Hardee's chicken biscuit." 

To top it off, while I wallowed in my self-inflicted misery, guys at Sebastian Inlet were enjoying some of the best winter surf they'd seen in years -- easily overhead, offshore, inviting green water. Not to say there weren't good times to be had during my North Carolina stay. Nothing is more priceless than time spent with one's loving family. But even they could detect my disgust that came with thoughts of saving a grand, sleeping in late with my girlfriend, and reveling in perfect surf right out front of my house. As quickly as I could, I changed my ticket and headed back to Florida. Of course, by this time, Florida went flat, and it stayed flat. And as you might've guessed, as soon as I left North Carolina, it got really, really good there.  

It's March now, supposedly one of the best months for surf in Central Florida. It's still flat, too, and most certainly better somewhere else. But I don't care about that. This curse which I've invited upon myself must be broken.  

And I'm not going anywhere until I catch it good here. By Matt Pruett