The Winter Ritual

It’s an Art Form in New England

- Travis Hayes

A Prius quietly pulls into a dirt lot on the curve of a road. The stone pillars marking the private entrance and the trees of the surrounding woods are coated in a thick dusting of pure white, newly driven snow.

In the predawn gloom, the iridescent snow glows brightly, illuminating the darkness under the towering oaks and pine. All sounds are muted; the wind whispers through the pines and a fog horn bellows from a nearby lighthouse.

He is already suited, warm in his steel and aluminum cocoon. He grabs his keys. One more gulp of coffee and then his booties crunch softly into the blanket of snow. The ritual begins: exiting the vehicle, unstrapping the board, grabbing the paddle, tucking the keys away in a safe nook, checking the latch to ensure it is locked…strapping on his surf cord. Only then does he slide on his gloves; otherwise, the clumsiness of his neoprene mittens would make all the previous tasks nearly impossible.

HE’S DONE THIS A THOUSAND TIMES