I contend, in fact, that the chill factor is one of main reasons surfers get sucked into the sport. We love the way the ocean cools us off -- literally and figuratively. Aside from living close to my brother, sisters and parents, the only thing that enabled me to tolerate Southern California's bleached and shallow sky for so many years was the knowledge that I could always sprint to the sea and wash away the smoggy grime. Is there anything more satisfying than the sweet bracing rush of duck-diving under a see-through lip on a hot gruesome day? Can you think of a sensation that stimulates on so many different neurological levels? Like a lot of surfers, I've become so addicted to that relief that I'm now afflicted by a kind of inland phobia -- what my funny friend Ben Marcus once called "Agouraphobia." The idea of suffering through a summer heat wave in some hellhole like Agoura or Dallas or Phoenix gives me a case of the heebie-jeebies second only to the nightmare thought of surfing the Farallon Islands, where white sharks breed.

Even on those frozen bitch days when the cold is nothing but agony, when every pebble in the parking lot is a thumbtack through your sole, there is salvation in the frost. It is especially gratifying if you've braved the cold for quality waves, knowing that you scored only because you were willing to face a discomfort that few people are willing to face -- because you were resolute. Forget the useless fingers, the humiliation of shrinkage (a private, towel-cloaked humiliation, after all), the slurred and dopey speech. Those are temporary afflictions. Back in the car -- heater blasting, beanie pulled low -- the warmth returns like peace.