The 7 Stages Of 'Dawn Patrol' Acceptance

David O'Hara sent us this image of a father and son duo making it out at 5a.m.

SAN DIEGO - Winter can be a cruel and icy princess that makes us work for her affection. Getting up for a dawn patrol session isn't always easy - not when there's frost on the lawn, daggers in the wind and freezing water down below. Paddlers who live in in places like Minnesota, Norway and Canada deserve medals for their efforts. It takes courage, honesty and commitment to get out there early in the A.M. But for those that do manage to get on the water at sunrise, the 7 Stages of Acceptance that happen before climbing out of bed look something like this...

 

1. Denial, Time: 5:45 A.M

The alarm clock starts bleating. It wakes your wife/husband and dogs up. Your spouse pokes you in the back and demands you turn it off immediately. You’re still asleep, though, and don't register until the poking gets more aggressive. Finally, it wakes you up. You open your maddened, red eyes and give the alarm clock a karate chop. ‘Can’t be time yet,’ you think to yourself. It feels like you went to bed an hour ago. It’s dark outside. Must be broken, you tell yourself. And then you fall back to sleep.

Paul Hyman, conquering frozen conditions on a Greenland expidition. 

2. Pain & Guilt, Time: 5:50 A.M. (Snooze #1)

The alarm goes off again, at the same time a text comes through from your Dawn Patrol Buddy, Dave:
‘Morning sunshine, leaving in 10! Freezing, but it’s going to be worth it!’ Dave says. You roll over and lose half your share of the blankets in the process. The cruel sting of winter’s whip lashes at your knees and elbows. You almost dislocate a hip trying to get back under. A stiff breeze outside makes the trees whistle and your bedrooms windows clang. The weather is hostile. You age twenty years in an instant. Your throat hurts and head feels heavy, as you fall asleep again dreaming of an ocean too cold to enter, currents too staring to out-padddle and waves too big to catch.

 

Cold is a relative term. Paul Coulter and friends collectively take on winter in Newport Beach. 

Bargaining, Time: 5:55 A.M. (Snooze #2)

The alarm clock is at it again, dragging you from the beauty of a sweet dream. ‘This is some kind of sick joke,’ you think. The idea of waking up this early seems absurd. Right now you hate the alarm clock more than anything in this world. Imagine the biggest idiot who ever lived stole your job, started dating your mom and moved in to the house you grew up in – that guy is still a more popular face than the one staring at you with red digits.

 

Then another sms comes through: ‘Hey, just about to leave. You up yet?’

You throw your phone across the room and swear on your mother’s life to never speak a word to Dave again.

 

Eilen Nodlie sprints against the chill during a morning paddle in Oslo, Norway. Image: Knut Sorby

4. Depression, Reflection & Loneliness, Time: 5:58

You can’t fall back to sleep. Angry thoughts have poisoned your mind and given you a drunkard’s reasoning, and now it’s time for the hangover to kick in. The truth is that Dave is the better waterman of you two, simply because he enjoys being in the water more than you do. He’s still committed after all these years. You’ve become a lazy kook who prefers sunshine, crowds and convenience to real paddling.

 

The comforts of success have made you weak. Your car, a ponsy Four by Four, is nothing more than a symbol of your middle-aged weakness. As a student you’d cruise to the beach in temperatures three times colder than this, in a car with no AC, broken windows and holes in the floor. You’d stay in the water all day in a thin wetsuit and no booties, then feast on chips and candya before making the slow drive home at dusk. That boy is gone. ‘My spirit is dead’, you think to yourself and weep into your Moroccan-embroidered pillow.

 

Groms - constantly rushing on high stoke levels, early morning or late afternoon. Image: Jason Geiger 

5. The Upward Turn, Time: 6 A.M. (Snooze #3)

Once again the alarm clock crows and fingers you, the Judas Iscariot of surfing. But instead of your own self-self-deprecating monologue, you hear another voice: you partner’s. He or she tells you to turn the alarm clock off and get out of bed, before they beat you with it. It lights your face up like a fireworks show. ‘Thank you!’ you say, leaping to your wooly slippers before she can get her claws near your eyes or any soft skin. Before long you’re armored by a beanie and a big jacket, ready to make the stifling journey across the cold, wooden floor, towards the screaming madness of the kitchen tiles.

 

Dawnies - fun to share with friends, family and manitees. Image: Christopher Ray  

6. Reconstruction & Working Through, Time 6:03 A.M.

While putting on the coffee you decide to type Dave an text: ‘Hey. On my way – battled a bit to wake up.’ While undoubtably making you annoyed, he has been a good friend to make you challenge your commitment to the sport of surfing. You also leave a short love note to your wife, who’s wrath and strong fingers pushed you to make the effort to get out of bed.

Kim Schierl, glacier National Park. Air Temp: 21 F, Water Temp: 38 F.  

7. Mobility, Time: 6:10 A.M.

You walk out the front door and pad across the frozen lawn, into the black morning. Only the faintest glimmer of sunrise paints the dark horizon. In half an hour it will be light enough to paddle out. It takes twenty five minutes to get there and at least ten to put on your wet wetsuit. You might not be perfectly on time, but at least you’re getting there.

 

The Stages Of Getting Into A Wet Wetsuit

1. Denial – you convince yourself you left your wetsuit hanging up on the porch, not in wet heap in the bath.
2. Pain – You pick your sopping wetsuit up in the bath and feel the extra weight as it drips in your stiff fingers.
3. Anger – Unfolding it feels as dehumanizing as picking the belt that lashes you. This is all your stupid wife’s fault for making you use a proper hanger. If you’d only been allowed to drape it over a chair outside, none of this would be happening.
4. Depression – You consider not paddling out. Then berate yourself for being such a pansy. Then consider whether or not you even like paddling anymore.
5. The Upward Turn – You grit your teeth and force your toes through the legs. It’s colder than you imagined, but you’ve gone too far to turn back now.
6. Reconstruction – You see a set on the outside and decide this has all been worth while.
7. Mobility – You’re stepping onto the beach, ready to jump into the channel, frothing.

 

*This piece was originally published by Zigzag Surfing Magazine and has been adapted by the author.