Paddling a surfboard isn’t easy with an AARP card in one hand and a Medicare card in the other. A stiff neck and bad lower back don’t help either. But none of that stops me from once again strapping my longboard to the top of my Chevy Tahoe SUV and driving to Surfside Beach, about an hour south of where I live, in Houston, my seventy-sixth birthday in the rearview mirror. It’s an early spring morning, clear and crisp, with reports of solid waist-high waves—just the way I like them. I’ve been surfing on the Texas coast for almost sixty years. Much of this record was made possible by my almost four-decade-long career as an outdoor-sports columnist for the Houston Chronicle.
When I started that job, fishing and hunting made up the traditional beat, but in 1972 I persuaded my editors to let me write the occasional feature on wave riding. I had been surfing since my teens and knew the Texas scene was worth covering. I was never an exceptional surfer, but I was legit. The Lone Star State boasts more than 360 miles of coastline, with barrier islands fronting the open Gulf of Mexico. A thriving wave-riding community has stretched from Galveston to South Padre Island since the sixties, when surfing entered mainstream culture through movies such as Ride the Wild Surf and The Endless Summer and hit songs from the Beach Boys and the Ventures. Although the scene isn’t as hot now, the Gulf Coast remains a year-round surfing destination. By 10 a.m. or so on a good day at Surfside, parking spaces along the one-mile Beach Drive and the jetty park are full…. read more >
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