For all the people who didn’t score all-time highs for Hurricane Hermine, you’re not alone. With your Instagram feed getting blown up with OBX posts and New York tube angles, it’s hard not to question whether your s**t hole night job was worth missing what everyone else was getting.

I surfed Wednesday, north jetty, 2- to 3-ft, crowded, but clean. Then I see What Youth posting an interview and photos by Hunter Martinez from his trip from Cali to Nags Head. My below average session isn’t looking very cool at all.

So, what is keeping us from doing what we really want to do?

I’ve compiled a list of reasons and excuses I like to use when I avoid going on a ballsy surf trip:

  1. I don’t have any money.
  2. My truck won’t make the drive.
  3. I have to work.
  4. It’s my friend’s little sister’s birthday party, and I told someone I would go.
  5. I need to order a new board.
  6. I’ll go next time.

broke

The list goes on and on. But it’s time we start looking at a new list …

The list of reasons why those reasons are for p***ies:

  1. No one has any money. But would you rather be poor at home, or poor in the barrel?
  2. Going on surf trips by yourself is some s**t the Surfer’s Journal would publish. My point is that all your friends have vehicles that aren’t as dilapidated as whatever your dad handed down to you six years ago.
  3. Really? If you don’t have any money, then whatever job you have is probably easily replaceable with some other shitty job where you don’t make any money.
  4. If you have prior arrangements, so be it, but remember last time you said you were going to do something, but then you scrolled through your explore feed on Instagram for three hours and then passed out?
  5. You’ve been “needing” a new board for a few years now. You’ll probably never get a new board unless your friend that works at the surf shop gives you his old one cause he always gets freshies.
  6. What if there is no next time?

do-it

So next time, if it even exists, call your buddies, throw $20 into one of their tanks, throw your old water-logged, sun-tanned 5’10” in the back, quit your job (or take leave if you’ve made it that far in life), flake on your plans and rip on up the coast, or down, or whatever.