Column

Holiday waves wash away cold memories

ST. PETERSBURG - December brings its share of cold fronts, wind, rain and plummeting water temperatures. With that in mind, I'd like to remind everybody that there is no better time to hit the beach.

Yes, I must confess, winter is my favorite time to play in the Gulf of Mexico.

When I think back to Christmases past, there's one in particular that comes to comes to mind.

Over the past 44 years I have seen my share of blizzards, snowball fights, ice fishing and sleigh riding during the holiday season. But without a doubt my most memorable Christmas was a decade ago on Clearwater Beach.

The conversation went something like this: "The wind has to be blowing 20 knots," I told my friend Dr. Greg Todd on Christmas Eve. "Do you want to sneak out first thing tomorrow morning and catch some waves?"

An "Alberta Clipper," a cold front of massive proportions, had barreled in out of the Midwest, dropping the air temperature to 32 degrees.

"I don't think we'll have to worry about crowds," I told Todd, a Dunedin veterinarian, as we drove across the Memorial Causeway in the dark. "Only the real crazies will be out there this morning."

We parked Todd's jeep beneath a street lamp and nearly lost both our longboards to the wind when we untied them from the racks. My hands were so cold, the wax so hard, I could apply just a thin layer to the board.

"I can't believe I forgot my booties," I said as I slipped into my wetsuit. "Oh well, it won't be the first time I have had cold feet."

The wind hadn't died during the night, so the waves were a solid 4- to 6-feet. But they had no particular form or shape. In surfer's lingo, the scene would be classified as Victory at Sea, alluding to the opening credits of the World War II documentary series that showed battleships crashing through a whitecapped Atlantic.

With the water temperature in the mid 50s, much warmer than the air, the Gulf actually was comforting at first. We paddled out through the impact zone, waves breaking over our heads.

"Ahhhhh," I groaned. "Ice cream headache."

But there was nothing I could do. Brain freeze is part of the territory.

Eventually we made it to where, on a better day, surfers would be lined up. I had to wait a while for the first rideable wave, but when it did come, I was ready, paddled hard and popped up on the board.

"Wipe out!" Todd yelled.

"I can't feel my feet," I said. "They are just numb pieces of meat."

Todd picked off the second wave but didn't fare any better. After an hour or so of floundering, we caught a couple of rides and then collapsed on the beach.

"I'm exhausted," Todd said.

"I feel like I am about to die," I replied.

We limped back to the Jeep, stripped off our wetsuits and each dumped a gallon of lukewarm water over our heads. Standing half-naked in the parking lot we shared a thermos of bitter black coffee and lied about how many waves we caught.

Then we packed up, headed home and resumed our family routines, knowing that regardless of what else the day had in store, we had done something that mattered.

Last week I called Todd to tell him the latest chapter in the ongoing drama of my hyperactive Labrador retriever, Sara.

"Do you remember that time we went" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Best Christmas I ever had."

"Me too," I said. "Me too."