Californian moves to middle America, makes poor life choices…

I’ve been missing the ocean lately.

Also been sweating to death in middle America. Humidity is antithetical to human existence; the scorn of my existence.

I regularly question why people deal with it.

My dad just chuckles while sipping a Pacifico in his Southern California backyard.

“I told you so.”

I’ve taken up running to fill the time that used to be spent surfing. Ran my first half-marathon the other day. I don’t particularly like running, especially when it’s eighty percent humidity, but I’ve discovered that a few surf podcasts and two hours of running somewhat satiates me, though if I’m being honest the vast majority of that time is spent trying to figure out what my first board order will be when I triumphantly return from my exile.

Until then, my girlfriend won’t let me buy one, as it would not be “prudent.”

I usually counter with something to the tune of “it’s never prudent” but I’m starting to realize that argument may be more detrimental than effective.

The worst part is, I know she’s right, though I refuse to admit it.

My lack of income, absurd tuition payments and ever accruing student debt, and the two-hour drive to a freshwater lake that rarely produces waist-high waves doesn’t really warrant a new board.

It likely doesn’t warrant any board, but that’s another discussion to be had.

Starved for waves, I’ve started googling obscure surf spots.

I’m becoming a bit of a poor man’s Dylan Graves.

There are a few promising river waves within a few hours, which is honestly incredible given how flat it is here, but I’m still waiting on a little rain.

Things are looking up though.

I’m starting to fully embrace the “No Salt, No Sharks, No Problems” lifestyle.

I might even buy a sweatshirt with the motto. They’re more or less the equivalent to the white and red lifeguard sweatshirts sold by coastal cities to Midwesterners, so I feel obligated to buy as the role has been reversed.

It’s also looking like I might get vibed out my next Lake Michigan session.

My article condemning the most welcoming of all surf cultures has been circulating a bit on the freshwater web.

I’m not too hopeful, though.

From what I’ve gleaned they’ve celebrated the positive lines and ignored any of the criticism. I haven’t even received one hateful DM. Was really looking forward to a mid-west polite condemnation.

We’ll see if I can find the breaking point of their positivity.

I’ve been contemplating a few new strategies, but I’m going to really have to think outside the box. A Wavestorm takeover will be more welcomed than denounced here.

Maybe when you surf a wave that rarely breaks and has forty-degree temperature swings, positivity is all you have.

On the shark front, I’m seeing some potential too. Spurred by boredom and BeachGrit’s commitment to documenting shark attacks, I recently googled “shark Great Lakes.”

According to the Global Shark Attack File, in 1955 there was a bull shark attack just outside of Chicago. Now, there’s little scientific evidence, but as this is BeachGrit, it would go against my journalistic integrity not to take it as fact.

I like to think there’s some rogue bull shark roaming Lake Michigan as we speak.

A Loch Ness monster type keeping the dream alive in the mid-west.

Its lone dorsal fin filtering through the pollution spurred algae blooms, preserving the one tether I have left to the ocean.

About as anti-depressive as I can get.