Surfing is climbing from a warm bed in predawn’s coolness, a sleepy drive, coffee and doughnuts at a roadside diner and the clatter of surfboards as they’re unstacked from a car rack. Surfing is the joy of watching a sun rise slowly into the sky. It’s crisp, clean waves, crests blown high by an offshore wind. It’s gray mist, dampness and cold sand under bare feet, the lonely cry of a gull sweeping across silent, brooding seas. On a big day, surfing is a strong swell and waves that have lost their playfulness. Then it’s stomach knots, high exultation, a trace of fear. Fred Wardy