Looks like the trade wind season is here, banging on my doors and windows, settling in my bones like grit, making me restless for outer island reefs, except there’s very little left to find. The only uncertainty is how guys will be in the water.
In fact, one unanticipated curse to the internet, where curses abound and all is revealed, and swell and tides and winds are known ahead of time, is that you know for a fact a certain fickle spot will be breaking, with not a soul around except for Mickey Dora reincarnated as a sea turtle (or maybe sea urchin), and you have it dialed so that you can get there in time, but you can’t leave because you are stuck at home. Torture.
(add to it the misery of the flu)