Since my youth, I've embraced the waves as an active surfer. While I may not be a pro, I've found a level of skill that satisfies. Yet, the sea isn't my first love; that honor belongs to the beach. It's a place to unwind, doze off, and bask in the luxury of time spent idly. The beach holds a special kind of magic.
If I had no other sports to distract me in my 20s, I would have simply lived on the coast, preferably Long Beach, New York, and surfed five days a week. I would have been in the ocean, learning the rules of traffic and surfing in crowds of cranky New Yorkers. Growing up in my teens in California, not being much of a surfer or a fighter, it was intimidating to surf in the good spots in Venice Beach and Santa Monica. I felt far more at home at 7 Presidents Beach in New Jersey, surfing with my cousin Morris.
I still have a secret fantasy, which is not very Yogi-like, of returning to some of the scarier surf spots, deliberately cutting into an aggressive male's wave, letting him freak out, and then beating the crap out of him on the shoreline. It's just a childish revenge fantasy.
I wish to honor my cousin, Morris Antebi. Though the nerdier one between us, he possessed an insatiable appetite for adventure. He ushered me into the realm of Jet Skis, dirt bikes, skydiving, and rock climbing. Moreover, his teenage enthusiasm fueled my passion for surfing. Cousin Morris, your influence lives on – thank you for the adventures.