The Morning Calibration: Why I Paddle Out Even When I Shouldn't

With too many things to do and never enough time to do them it's tempting to skip the morning surf in lieu of ticking off items on my list. It often feels wrong, like I'm betraying, or even selling my soul, but logically it makes sense - I can get ahead of things today and be freed up for better waves tomorrow. After-all, I do need to make money to support my addiction.

Before I realized how flawed my logic was, I'd occasionally hope for poor conditions or even a flat spell. I wanted to crank out work without feeling guilty about missing a good session. On the days when the forecast wasn't clear and a surf check was required, I'd find myself at the nearest lookout relieved to see sub-par conditions. "Great! I can proceed with getting stuff done!" I would tell my self.

At my lowest moments I could convince myself not to paddle out even when the surf looked fun. Cold water, a light texture on the surface, a few guys paddling out to an already crowded lineup... is it really worth it?

I lived like this for many years assuming it was the optimal path to daily happiness, but it all changed for me one winter in South Africa. I was living about a five-minute's walk from the nearest break and with no cams and no car I decided to commit to a daily paddle out.

I reasoned this was the most optimal use of my time. By the time I walked down to the shore, waited to see a set, then hemmed and hawed about whether to go out, I could have suited up, paddled out, and returned to shore. Net-net I wouldn't have lost any time with the blind paddle out tactic. The only real downside was having a damp wetsuit for the following session (which turned out to be one of the factors that helped me make my discovery).

It took me two weeks of the blind paddle out approach to see its impact clearly. Despite paddling out on multiple days of dismal surf, I was happier than ever. I had accidentally stumbled upon a sort of stoic approach to the surfing life. By fighting the series of physical and mental battles required to make the morning session possible, I lowered my expectations for the rest of the day and increased my overall happiness.

So here's the series of battles I fight almost every day, what I've learned from them, and why I think they're worth fighting:

Battleground 1: The Extremities

I grew up surfing in relatively cold waters in California, but even after multiple years of experience and with higher quality wetsuits, it's never gotten any easier. Even on the occasion where I'll wear booties or a hood I'm still subjected to a series of micro-punishments, each getting harsher from the moment I wake up until I'm back home in dry clothes.

My first fight is simply getting out of bed. It's always harder than I want it to be. My fear is in facing the two minutes of discomfort between my bed and getting a pair of sweats up to operating temperature. Rolling around under the covers I contemplate what's better - more sleep or getting on with the day? The colder the air the easier it is to stay comfy, but getting up is always the right decision.

Pulling back the covers the cold air hits my milky white skin. (Sleeping naked makes this transition more difficult but I could never get used to jammies.) Goose bumps arise instantly and my hair stands on end. This is my body's natural reaction, called piloerection, designed to trap a layer of air close to the skin and slow the exchange of heat. As quickly as my hair stands up my morning wood falls down. Short and shriveled, with chicken skin, I start my day.

The sequence of micro-battles that follow are familiar but not automatic. Despite doing the same thing for years, the friction of discomfort means I have to muster willpower at each step on my way to catching the daily stoke.

Not long after I'm comfortable in my clothes it's time suit up. The chill hits me mentally before I feel it physically. Flipping my wetsuit right-side in, feeling the wrists and ankles still damp, I start preparing for the next cold shock. This is the time I'll start procrastinating if possible... shuffling around to check for wax or grabbing another sip of water. Although I want to get out and I know it, unconsciously my body resists the oncoming shock.

Despite years of practice I struggle to get my feet through the cold rubber openings that seem to cling to my heels in resistance. When I was a kid I'd put a plastic shopping bag over my feet as an aid. It worked wonders but I gave it up at some point, determining it was uncool. I think about it every time my heel gets stuck, but never employ it. Balancing on one foot as I crouch down to pull the suit up, I tip over sideways or backwards pressing my naked butt up against the nearest cold surface. The goose bumps return again.

I'm slightly relieved once under the embrace of my suit and one step closer to being fully awake. To help warm the suit and stretch the limbs, I pull one leg up toward my chest, then the other. I sit down into a squat and raise my hands above my head. (That should do it!) Still cold and stiff, I start running through my final checks: board, leash, wax, sunscreen. All systems go!

My entry into the water is only notably uncomfortable when I've completely underestimated the water temp... which happens more often than I'd like. California in particular has currents that can drop the water temp by five degrees overnight - enough to turn a comfortable session in an old 3/2 into a frigid shocker as water seeps through old seams.

On these days my body's biggest shock of the morning comes in waist high water. Otherwise, the shocker is my first duck dive. Regardless of my wetsuit, dipping my head into frigid waters always takes my breath away. Pulling through the back of the wave I take an involuntary gasp for air.

After only a second underwater I feel like I'm out of breath. This is my body's natural reaction - a survival mechanism known as the 'cold shock response'. It's triggered by the abrupt temperature drop, which can cause rapid, uncontrolled breathing (hyperventilation) and a swift increase in heart rate and blood pressure. It only lasts a second, but it's an intense one. If I wasn't fully awake before this point I surely am now.

A combination of movement, distraction, and self urination makes the rest of my session tolerable. I'm usually able to ignore the warning signs from my body until the last 20 minutes. In this final window I deteriorate quickly. The chill sets in hard and fast.

I know I need to start looking for my last wave when my paddling power diminishes to the point of clawing through the water. Arms feeling heavy and pinkies unable to conform to my cupped hand, I start missing waves and blowing takeoffs. At this point I know it's time to start looking for my last wave - preferably a nice one to top off the session. But as we all know, this is usually when the lull comes, leaving me out in the elements longer than I had hoped.

I have a moment of relief as I transition back to land, knowing that I'll soon be warming up. But the biting and stinging from the cold often get worse before they get better. Curiously, when my extremities go numb they become more sensitive to pain. The cobblestone path I cruised over on the way down turns into a gauntlet on the way back. A pebble turns into a nail. Larger rocks are virtually unnavigable. Walking on frozen nubs with stiff limbs, I hobble across the path like a zombie walking over coals.

Any waft of air over my extremities brings further punishment. The cold air stings my exposed hands, feet, and face, making me quicken my pace back to shelter. By the time I'm back to my car or front door, my hands are further numbed, operating at a fraction of their normal capacity.

On one particularly cold morning I was disabled to the point that I was unable to free my car key from my wetsuit. Cursing my fingers, wetsuit, and key simultaneously, I couldn't loosen the knot of its tether. Not only were my fingers disabled, they hurt like hell. Cold, tired, and starting to shiver, I was overcome with desperation. Was I going to freeze to death on the side of the road? My body seemed to think so.

Out of frustration I abandoned loosening the synched key chord, stretched it as far as I could, leaned my chest down to meet the door handle, and managed to unlock the car. On the drive home I replayed the brief but painful moment in my head. In addition to my physical discomfort I was now also embarrassed from having lost my cool (even though no one was around the witness it). In an effort to save face with my own ego I searched for answers. How is it possible that my hands could be too numb to function yet still deliver so much pain?

The answer: Differential Nerve Sensitivity. Later that day I learned there are two types of nerve fibers in my hands. The nerve fibers I assumed were the main and only ones I have are called Large Myelinated Fibers. They're responsible for transmitting the feelings of touch and pressure. When we touch our forefinger to our thumb these nerves instantly send a signal to the brain confirming the connection. Even the lightest graze of the finger will send a push notification to the head. But these nerves are as sensitive to the cold as they are to touch. Their conduction speed slows down significantly as tissues cool, which is why my hands lose sensation when I'm cold.

The non-obvious nerve system is the second, smaller type of fiber called Thinly Myelinated Fibers. Their role is to warn us when our extremities get too cold, signaling us to warm up so they don't lose functionality. They're the ones that transmit the sharp pain signals in chilly waters which I ignore for as long as possible. These little guys remain active and even become more excitable under cold conditions. This explains why my hands can both lose dexterity yet also become more sensitive to pain.

My self education here lead me to ask further questions. The most intense pain in my extremities often comes after I'm out of the water when I'm trying to warm myself up. I'd think a warm shower would be comforting, but even lukewarm water on my cold skin burns my hands and feet.

This final fight, rounding out my morning battle, is caused by vasoconstriction and vasodilation. Here's what happens: When our hands and feet become intensely cold, our body initiates a protective response called vasoconstriction. This narrows the blood vessels in our extremities, significantly reducing blood flow, which helps conserve core body heat and protect vital organs. It's a survival mechanism.

When the warm water hits my cold hands the process reverses. A rapid rewarming occurs. My cold blood vessels dilate and those large myelinated nerve fibers start waking up. In a post-coma confusion these nerves send the signal of burning or stinging up to the brain.

Mystery solved! But wait... there's one final punishment all cold water surfers know of and most dread: the ice cream headache.

This shock to the system is remarkably similar to the "brain freeze" we all know from childhood. I got my first brain freeze at age six in the checkout line of a 7-11 when I wolfed down a cherry slurpee. No sooner than I felt the euphoria from the sugar on my tongue was I paralyzed by a tremendous headache. My forehead froze and I clinched my eyes shut, then rubbed my head furiously as if the friction would warm it back up. The pain quickly faded and I proceeded to make the the same mistake two more times before learning to pace my intake of the succulent red ice water.

The sharp, stabbing ice cream headache experienced during a cold-water duck dive provides a similar sensation, but the physiological process that unfolds is slightly different. The sequence begins immediately upon submersion: the sudden contact with frigid water triggers rapid vasoconstriction of blood vessels in the head as a protective response to minimize heat loss. As we pop back up above water the reaction quickly reverses as the body attempts to rewarm the area, resulting in an equally rapid vasodilation.

This swift and dramatic change in blood vessel size is the core mechanism that sets the entire painful sequence in motion. Combined with the extreme temperature drop, the vessel size transition irritates the highly sensitive trigeminal nerve. This is the largest nerve in our heads and it's responsible for transmitting sensation from the entire face and forehead to the brain. Although the cold stimulus also hits the face during a duck dive (unlike a slurpee where it hits the palate), the resulting pain is felt primarily in the forehead.

This phenomenon is called referred pain: the brain interprets the confused signals from the irritated trigeminal nerve as originating in the forehead due to shared nerve pathways. This cycle is compounded by repeated stimulation, which explains why I usually only get it after 3-4 consecutive duck dives.

The Post Session Chills

While the ice cream headaches quickly fade, after prolonged exposure I can get "chilled to the bone" - a phrase my dad loves to say when he sees me bundled up after a surf session. I always assumed my dad didn't understand biology, but upon researching further he deserves a little more credit.

That stubborn chill that lasts for hours, even after I've taken a warm shower and and I'm in dry clothes, really does occur because of how deeply the cold penetrates the body. It's scientific term is 'deep peripheral cooling', where my extremities become much colder than my core. Reversing this deep tissue cooling takes significant time and/or effort.

Even though a warm shower promotes some vasodilation, blood flow returns slowly. Our bodies don't always acknowledge we're back in a safe space and often remain in heat-conservation mode well after we exit the water. Even when they do, resolving the temperature lag is slow and takes a lot of energy. The upside? Rewarming demands more energy which results in more calories burned. So the post-session breakfast burrito is even further justified in the winter!

A hot cup of coffee on the other hand is not. Caffeine is a vasoconstrictor, so while it feels nice, it actually hinders the body's ability to reheat the extremities. Caffeine is also a diuretic, meaning it increases urination. Since cold exposure already causes cold-induced diuresis (fluid loss), adding caffeine can exacerbate dehydration, making it harder for our bodies to regulate temperature. (Sorry for the bad news.)

What's the optimal post session drink when chilled to the bone? Warm water with honey, ginger, and a little salt. It doesn't sound sexy but the science is clear. The warm (but not super hot*) water gently aids in raising our core temperature; the honey provides quick fuel to feed our elevated metabolism; the salt assists with rehydration and electrolyte replacement. Ginger, apparently, acts as a natural thermogenic agent... whatever that means. I just try to remember to drink a glass of water or two before hitting the espressos and starting in on my day.

*Why Super Hot Water is Not Ideal: Water that is too hot can trigger a rapid, exaggerated vasodilation. This immediate response is the body attempting to shed heat to maintain a stable core temperature, which can actually cause you to lose essential internal warmth and worsen the feeling of an afterdrop. Gradual, gentle warmth is the key to effective rewarming.

After a chilly session it's easy to see why I'd be happy the rest of the day. My body probably thinks it escaped death and is grateful to be alive. With this perspective, clicking the start button on an electric kettle, pulling a pair of wool socks onto my feet, and standing under a warm ray of sun are surprisingly delightful.

Battleground 2: The Stomach and Throat

For all the reasons described above and more, I love surfing in tropical water. But regardless of the water temp surfing still provides a unique set of challenges for my body.

An hour into my session I start thinking about my next meal. Two hours in my dreams turn from a healthy breakfast to burgers, burritos, and candy bars. Beyond two hours I'm elated to cram any source of calories down my neck and do it as soon as possible.

In addition to my burrito day dreams, surfing burns a sneakily high number of calories. Beyond the shredding, paddling, and full-body clenching during beat downs, the body works in the background trying to maintain homeostasis.

One of the primary calorie burners is thermoregulation. Water conducts heat away from the body much more efficiently than air – about 25 times faster. In the water, particularly cold water, our body has to work considerably harder to prevent its core temperature from dropping. This is true even in slightly cool water and the opposite is true in uncomfortably warm water. (I know, right?)

Intense mental focus and concentration is another sneaker that requires significant energy. Our brain, although it only makes up about 2% of our body weight, can use up to 20% of our energy. When I'm surfing I'm constantly processing information – reading the waves, anticipating their movement, reacting to changing conditions, and making split-second decisions. When I'm getting tossed around under water after blowing a takeoff my mind goes into overdrive; my senses are heightened and I'm focused on the most effective way to scratch back to the surface. It's a short scare but a fast drain of energy.

If the waves are pumping my adrenaline is too. In this case, rather than the slow build of hunger, it hits me all at once. As if feeling the sand under my feet returns me to my senses, I'm suddenly attuned to the rumbles of my gut. In a cascade of bodily signals I suddenly feel weak, sometimes even lightheaded. With a high stoke but low blood sugar, my focus shifts immediately toward food and water.

After one marathon session in South Sumatra I nearly fainted on the beach. It was cranking and no one was out. I couldn't believe it. This was one of those rare sessions that's so much better than all others it must be milked. I doubled my normal session range from two to four hours. I would have surfed longer, but it became hazardous for me to continue. Too depleted to catch waves, I got hung up on the lip and went over the falls on a beautiful set. I assumed the fetal position and prayed I wouldn't hit the reef. I came up unscathed and decided not to push my luck any further.

I realized just how gassed I was when I reached the shore lightheaded with wobbly legs. I laid on the sand for a few minutes to catch my breath and re-regulate before I could safely drive my motorbike to the nearest cafe.

After four hours of sweating and swallowing salt water I was also seriously dehydrated. Surfing presents a unique 'perfect storm' for dehydration because we are sweating, exposed to the sun, and immersed in saltwater - accelerating fluid loss without us noticing. I rarely feel thirsty while surfing but I'm always parched once back on dry land.

In addition to learning to ignore them, I've tried to train myself to become less sensitive to these types of bodily inconveniences. The hunger factor is a relatively easy one to optimize for. I've done it via fasting. Going a day without food helps my body re-regulate insulin levels and quickly reveals how soft I've become. Even prolonging breakfast until after the morning surf session helps shift my perception, significantly increasing my appreciation of our outrageously convenient food supply.

Hydration isn't the same. Although I've heard of hardcore outdoorsmen training their bodies to require less water I've never fully believed it; Nor have I thought it necessary to get this extreme for my level of surfing. Experiencing intense thirst after a dehydrating surf session, however, does improve my daily happiness.

We're living in an age where straight up water is no longer satisfying. Life's most precious liquid now has to be flavored and carbonated for us to enjoy it. After an hour in the water I can appreciate even the foul-tasting water of southern California and be happy it flows feely from the tap.

Battlefield 3: Mother Nature

I know I should never take the first wave of the set, but unless I'm the only one around and I can see more coming behind it, I rarely resist the temptation.

Usually coming in bunches of 4-6 I know what I'm getting into. Even after a sweet ride I'm still looking at a paddle battle back out against the biggest waves of the day. And that's the best case scenario...

It's an awful feeling to be pushing as hard as possible to catch a wave and just miss it, then turnaround to see multiple bearing down on me. At that point I'm too far inside to make a clean dive under the oncoming walls of water. I know, no matter what I do, I'm going to get pummeled by all of them. My choice here is to stay inside, hope the oncoming wave breaks and dissipates a little energy before it gets to me... or, charge as hard as possible toward it and pray to god I can make it under cleanly.

These are both low probability gambles. More likely I'm going to be in the worst possible position - the impact zone: where the lip of the wave meets the surface of the water as it breaks. The power of the wave at this point is like a perfectly timed karate punch. I know at a minimum I'll be exhausted from the battle. More likely I'm going to get thrashed.

It's these short intense thrashings and hold-downs on bigger days that make my entire body feels sore afterward. I would expect my shoulders and back to ache from all the paddling - maybe my legs a bit if I'm on a particularly long wave - but the post-surf soreness often runs from my fingers to my toes.

This humbling is not limited to 'big' days.

On the small days I thoroughly enjoy playing on the log. Part of the fun is experimenting with the timing of the longboard. Getting in earlier and planning further ahead offer a novel challenge after multiple sessions on a popsicle stick. The other part is harnessing the tremendous power that comes in even knee-high waves.

I can get super stoked on an ankle-biter, flying down the line trying to hang ten or cross-stepping like I know what I'm doing. The low pressure makes me forget that one small mistake can still be punishing.

All it takes is a slight misplacement of the foot to dig a rail and send me flying out into the shallows. I've had some of my worst wipeouts in small waves. Standing upright, cruising on the longboard, feeling relaxed, thinking I'm looking cool, then hitting a bump and flying out onto the flats - flat-backed or whiplashed. Part of the pain surely comes from my sore ego after such an abrupt transition from super cool to super kook.

More mental then physical, this final fight is a classic reminder of the old cliche that mother nature is all powerful. Despite how impressive our feats of humanity are, our power is nothing compared to that of the ocean. If you don't believe me try taking a two foot wave to the chest in knee deep water.

I'm always happier throughout the rest of the day when I've had my head shrunk in the morning by the best shrink in the world - mother nature.

Bonus Stoke and Recalibration

Of course when I do the blind paddle out my accumulative stoke for the week goes way up. We all know it's always better than it looks and it just takes one fun ride to catch a stoke. One lucky corner on a closed out day, a rogue two foot peeler when it's practically flat, or even just a clean takeoff in an otherwise sloppy session... the bar for my morning stoke is surprisingly low and my judgement from the shore surprisingly bad.

Even on the sessions I don't catch a stoke, I return to dry land recalibrated. I've found that my frustration from having a dismal session fades away rather quickly. But my refreshed appreciation for the mundane usually lasts all day and I hold a healthier perspective. Work is less stressful, relationships are easier to manage, and my existential angst is temporarily subdued.