Surf travel—the hunt for a perfect wave—is a search for the sublime, a pursuit of fleeting transcendence, a journey into the fabled wilderness. The journey I took on a late February evening was no different. When I left my apartment in Brooklyn after work, backpack stuffed with wax, fins, and board shorts and my board tucked beneath my arm, it was bitterly cold, the temperature in the low 40s, raining and on the verge of sleeting. The wind was south-southeast, 17 mph, gusts at 24 onshore. The Long Branch buoys were reading 5.1 feet at 11 seconds, east-southeast. It had been dark for hours.
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