I Dream Of Surf

Decoding our deepest, darkest surf dreams

- Justin Housman

The best wave I’ve ever surfed is a novelty right-hander that spins up inside a sandspit-protected harbor in the little Central Coast town where I grew up. At a glance, the setup doesn’t seem like it should be capable of producing surf—it’s a good half-mile or more from the open ocean, tucked way, way inside a boat-filled bay on the edge of a brackish estuary. While it seems impossible for any swell angle to actually reach the break, it’s somehow pumping every single time I’m there. There’s no beach, just the rocks of the harbor, still water, and that absolutely flawless wave. Paddling out, you can’t help but shout to your buddies, “Can you believe this wave is even here? This is insane!” Pulling into little shimmering tubes that rival any first wave at Slater’s wave pool, peeling off in uniform fashion for minutes at a time, it feels like a dream. Probably because it is a dream—the surf dream I’ve had at least once a month for years.

For the first few waves of the dream, it feels so real, then, somehow, my logical brain kicks in and breaks up all the fun, announcing: “This is a dream. This wave isn’t here. How could a wave possibly even break here, anyway? Don’t be absurd! Show’s over.” Then I usually wake up, frustrated that I didn’t actually score perfect tubes, and a little embarrassed to be tricked by my own subconscious again.