I consider myself an honest guy. I don’t cheat on my taxes. I don’t cheat on my wife. My career as a journalist, my very livelihood, depends on sources and people being able to trust me. But when it comes to surfing, I’m a lyin,’ cheatin’ cad.

People will read this, obviously, so I can’t recount all the fibs I’ve told to bosses to sneak in a few waves when I should have been at work. All the little lines I’ve used to skirt out of some stuffy inland social event that would keep me out of the water. Heck, sometimes I tell stories, not even sure it’ll allow me to surf, but just because I know the waves MIGHT be good that day.

Recently, though, I had one event that may have been my low point. If surfing were drinking, or drugs, or some other unhealthy addiction, it would have been intervention time. It was, you see, the day of my father-in-law’s wake.

We had spent the year shuttling back and forth to my wife’s parents’ house in Pennsylvania while her dad battled brain cancer. He passed away one Saturday in late January and I returned solo to NJ for two days of work with plans to return  for the wake Wednesday evening. But there was surf that day. Good surf. Good, empty, offshore New Jersey winter south swell surf. So I had to sneak in a session before heading to PA. I needed it – I craved the peace and quiet, the energy I get from surfing. Some people pray. I surf.

But still there’s no way in hell I should have gone. But I did. And of course, time kind of got away from me. It was one of those great, late morning, mid winter, mid week sessions. One other guy out, he and I trading wave after wave, barrel after barrel. All ours. And of course, time got away from me.

Hours later, there I was, hurtling in my Hyundai down the Pennsy Turnpike, late for my father-in-law’s wake. “You’re late for your wife’s dad’s wake because you went surfing?’ I said to myself. “You need some f-in help.” When I finally arrived at the house, my wife was there, in tears of course. “My god,’’ she said. “I was waiting to see you and thought you’d be earlier.” I said nothing, just hugged her, ashamed. 

What is it about surfing that makes me put so much at risk? There are sick days I’ve taken where, at that moment when I’m calling work from my cell phone on the boardwalk, I really, truly couldn’t care less if I got caught and lost my job, my home, whatever. So long as I didn’t miss that day in the water.  That session the day of my father in law’s wake was probably the only time I’ve ever gone surfing and not told a soul where I was, or that I had gone surfing at all. An utterly secret session, until now. I’m coming clean.  

Later, that night at the funeral home, we were standing in a group; my wife and I, a few friends, family, laughing and crying and remembering mi suegro (father in law). I was carrying a tissue to keep the post-surf nose drain from soiling my black suit or gushing out as I shook hands of the guests arriving to pay their respects. My buddy JG, a surfer, walked up beside me and asked, “Did you get out this morning?”“No, way,” I said, loud enough for the group to hear. “I couldn’t. Had to get up and come here.”

 Aaaay. Forgive me, Suegro, for telling lies at your wake. Forgive me, D-bomb, my beautiful wife, for being late in your greatest hour of need. I am, after all, a liar. A cad. A cheat. A surfer. 

(there’s a comment function here – would love to hear some other stories of scams people have pulled in the name of surfing) 

 Peace, BD.