“Baber,” I say into the phone, “I’m heading to the ER.”

A few posts ago, I mentioned two surfing inevitabilities. One – you will have good days and bad days. On good days, you’ll easily catch wave after wave and finish your session filled with adrenaline. On bad days, you’ll miss everything. You wind up frustrated that you spent your time paddling around and wiping out. Inevitability number two – you will get hurt. Time to talk about the pain.

There’s no way out of this. Me? I’ve gotten sliced across the forehead by a paddle, slashed in the shoulder by a fin, and of course broke ribs wiping out. Sometimes the injuries are flesh wounds – fin cuts. Other times the injuries are serious. It took eight-weeks for my ribs to heal. Eight-weeks to be able to hug my daughters and sneeze without seeing stars. My friends have torn off their toenails on reefs. They’ve smashed their faces on jetties. They’ve even stomped on poisonous urchins. But as I enter my fourth year of highs and wounds, I realize that we wear these injuries as badges of honor. Maybe there’s a third inevitability. Second is that you will get hurt. The third is that you’ll smile through the pain and gladly tell your story over and over.

Despite the torture we put our bodies through, we still go into the ocean in search of the rush. Despite the ER visits, our wives and husbands and families still support our addiction.

Which brings me to the day this epiphany hit. It was December 23rd. Conditions were great – shoulder height and perfect tide. Chilly, but hey it was almost Christmas. To celebrate, a bunch of us planned on getting in a session, even wearing our Santa hats. The night before, as a packed up my gear, my wife said, “please be careful and don’t get hurt right before Christmas.” I of course smiled and said, “Babe, when have I ever gotten hurt.”  She’s always supported me. But ever since The Great Rib Incident of 2020, she’s asked that I take it easy if we’re approaching a holiday or a special event. 

Boy did the session deliver on expectations. We spent the first 35-minutes grabbing waves and hootin’ and hollerin’. It was holiday hootenanny on the high seas.

Until it wasn’t.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed a friend struggling to get to his board in shoulder deep water. “Are you okay?” I screamed. “No!” he screamed back. So, I paddled to him and got him onto the beach. “I dislocated my shoulder,” he screamed as we rushed onto the sand. His arm dangled, even though it was tightly wrapped by his thick wetsuit. He screamed like I’ve never heard a person scream before. He’d pushed his board over a breaking wave, but the wave was too strong. It drove through him and thrusted the board, his arm with it, straight over his head. Honestly the next few minutes were a blur. We pulled off our gloves and boots and leashes and dropped our boards on the sand and left them. We got to the street, and I grabbed his wallet and phone and clothes from his truck, and then we got into my Pilot. He made his phone call. Then I called my wife, “Baber, I’m heading to the ER.” I knew it was the last thing she wanted to hear. “But it’s not for me.” I could sense her relief even though she was concerned for our friend. “I’m taking him there now,” I said. “Of course,” she said.

The second inevitability hit me as we drove to the walk-in. Every time we get in the ocean, we’re throwing the dice. He wound up in the ER a few hours and needed a small army to get his should back in its socket.

 I went there for a few reasons. First, it’s around the corner from the emergency room. Second, they have a breakfast that I love. I’ve shared my rabid appreciation for cheese omelets and for breakfast sandwiches, but this is different. Sometimes, I crave eggs and cheese, but don’t want the heaviness of bread. I still want a vessel to deliver that combo into my mouth, but again, not a fork. Strange craving, I guess. Joe’s answers the call with their egg and cheese wrap. It’s very similar to the egg and cheese sandwich I’d get at the bodega on Hudson Street by my office. It has a beautiful blend of grease and egg and melted cheese, not quite omeletized and not quite a fried egg. Perfection wrapped in a thin blanket for structure.

 Third, their coffee is equally delicious. Somehow, I always forget this fact. They serve Lacas coffee. Before writing this, I’d never heard of the brand. When sipping my large, piping hot cup of joe, I asked the woman at the counter what they served. “Lacas,” she said immediately. “It’s a pretty historic brand.”

She was correct. Turns out Lacas is in Pennsauken, NJ, not far from where I grew up. They’ve been sourcing, roasting, and distributing coffee since 1921. All that experience, it’s not surprising their coffee is fantastic. That day, I drank the Dark Note. If you’ve not caught on, I’m a sucker for dark roast. I prefer bold flavor. Though I don’t discount any roast per se. I’ll drink anything you put in front of me. This particular roast, though, is especially tasty because as bold as it is, its bitterness is held at bay. 

The fourth reason I appreciate Joe’s? It’s decorated similarly to a few breakfast shops I visited in Kailua – small town on the east coast of Oahu.  Being inside Joe’s takes me back to the place I love so much.

 I sat by myself at Joe’s for about 30 minutes and said nothing to anyone else. I ate my wrap and drank my coffee. In the silence, I looked out at my truck, its body covered in board racks and salt. And I thought about the sport I’ve come to consider part of my being.  Inevitability number two hit me then. I realized that I am lucky. Lucky to have been introduced to surfing. Lucky to have been able to actually sort of learn to catch waves. Lucky to have been able to experience the rush. I’m lucky to have been able to walk back to my truck injury free – most of the time.