By Taylor Paul
International Surfing Day is a beautiful pain in the ass in Iceland. Just 24 hours shy of the summer solstice, the day is long, with 24 hours of light. So much time to be in the water — more time than any surfer (save the Icelandic grom with an oval shaped tan line from his wetsuit hood) can handle. The swell pours in and the sun won’t fall, it just gives a little curtsy and leaves no excuse to stop looking for waves. And there are waves: Beachies, points, and reefs. Slabs just short some tide or wind. We can wait, though; the tide will switch, and the wind changes every hour on the hour.
Our arms are sore and covered with rash. We’re sunburned and wind-chapped. Our bloodshot eyes squint towards the horizon, it’s nine o’clock in the evening and we’ve already surfed twice, and here comes another set. We’re exhausted, but kinda frothing too.
Frothing ’cause we’re in Iceland, and frothing cause it’s our holiday. ISD. And also Father’s Day. Pete Devries is here, proud pop of Asher Devries; it’s Pete’s first Frother’s — ahem, Father’s Day. He’s double-dipping in the celebration. And we’re frothing ’cause we’re with Tanner Gudauskas, froth incarnate, and he’s halfway suited up already.
We use the positive energy to push through the aches and raw armpits. The water is 50 degrees. The sun is shining way too high for this late in the day. The wind is whipping offshore. We’re out there.
Whoops, almost forgot the sunscreen.