A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
Every part of me is a surfer. I love surfing, and I love the waves that I surf. So that's the thing that I get excited about most: What kind of waves am I going to be able to surf? Am I going to be surfing alone, or will we be surfing waves that no one's surfed before? Second to that is photography.
My hobbies are random. One week I want to exercise, one week I just want to eat all day. One week I'm going out every night and the next week I'm totally locked in my house, not going anywhere. I'm a little bit all over the place, socially. I don't have another passion or hobby - it's really music. I'm in the studio constantly.
There are good waves not that far from Manhattan - on Long Island, in north Jersey. It's true that the best surf around here tends to happen in winter, so you need a good wetsuit, and the time window of good waves is often pretty short, so you have to stay on top of the forecasts.
On the rock bound coast of New Brunswick the waves break incessantly. Every now and then comes a particularly dangerous wave that breaks viciously into the rock. It is called 'The Rage.' That's me.
I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.
Surf music is actually just the sound of the waves played on a guitar: that wet, splashy sound.
When the surf is really good, it's hard for me to concentrate on work. So I really have to watch when and where I surf - I won't get anything done if I get the fever. Then it's like I come into work and I'm wet and waterlogged and ready for lunch.
After God and my family, it's surf. I don't imagine me not surfing. Surf brings me smile every day.
The first thing I do every morning is go online to check the surf. If the waves are good, I'll go surf. The beach is 10 minutes away.
The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
There are big surfing communities in every country with an ocean coast that I know in Central and South America. Same with Mexico, Bali, and nearly every island nation that gets waves in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. But that's a relatively recent development in most places.
I've been around the surf culture since I was a kid. I grew up in a beach town in Rhode Island. Then eventually I lived in Dana Point, Calif., a real surf hotbed.
It's the worst feeling in the world - to lose in the first round at Sheffield and then have to go home - because it's such a long tournament, and it's hard to avoid it. It's on the TV all day every day, and if I lost, I didn't want to be anywhere near snooker.
It's interesting to me because theater is, on any given day, 10,000 times harder than film and television. And that's not to say film or television can't be hard or challenging; it's emotional to do the same thing over and over and over. But in terms of stamina, there is nothing like an eight-show week to separate the men from the boys.
When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me and a trembling seizes me all over.
Wrestling has been a way of life with me day in and day out. I won't get too far away from it. I might walk through the wrestling room once a week. I could go every day if I wanted. But just walk through, make sure it's still there.