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Playing Doc’s Games, by the New Yorker

Stashed in: New Yorker, Tasty Waves!

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Surfing is not a choice.

A howl from the hillside finally ends this idyll. Ten minutes later, two guys are furiously paddling out through the channel, with two more hurrying across the beach, shaking their boards and hooting like monkeys. I decide that my next wave will be my last. I catch a shoulder-high peak, driving across the inside shelf. As I near the channel, I can see the two paddlers there pause to watch me ride. Rather than coast through the last section, I bank hard off the bottom and try a showy maneuver known as a reentry. I’ve been making more difficult moves all morning, but my concentration is flawed now. I fall off, and get washed through the shallows to shore.

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