THENEWYORKER,JANUARY18, 2021 17
1
THEWAV E S
SOLSTICESURFATHON
A
little after 6:30 A.M. on the short-
est day of 2020, Jeremy Grosvenor
pulled his rusted-out 1988 Toyota pickup
into a parking spot at a surf break in Mon-
tauk known as Dirt Lot. In the summer,
the spot is crawling with surfers. But, with
the sky still purple and the temperature
around thirty-eight degrees, Grosvenor
and one other middle-aged guy were
the only ones who had shown up to pad-
dle out. Still built like an athlete at fifty,
Grosvenor hopped out of the board-laden
truck, climbed into its bed, and taped a
hand-scrawled sign to the rear window:WINTER SOLSTICE
SURFATHON
7:07 – 4:26?
STOKEDGrosvenor is an artist who makes ex-
perimental films and sculptures with
aerodynamic lines, but his primary mode
of expression involves riding waves and
otherwise pursuing locomotion in the
waters off eastern Long Island. His re-
cent projects—or, as he calls them, “water
incidents”—include a gale-chasing ex-
pedition on a standup paddleboard and
a swimming-and-camping trip, which
involved towing a raft full of gear, at-
tached by a leash to his waist, through
the Atlantic. For the solstice, Grosvenor
planned to surf continuously from sun-
rise to sunset, to raise money for the
Montauk Food Pantry. “I love this time
of the year,” he said, pulling a wetsuit
over a merino onesie and wool socks. “I
don’t find the dark gloomy. To me, it’s
beautiful and mysterious. And the sol-
stice is a moment of transition, which I
hope is also happening in the country.”
Grosvenor exudes boyish, buoyant
good nature, but he can get quasi-mystical
when he describes “having faith in the
sea as a sanctuary.” Known for his ability
to ride waves on pretty much anything,
from standard surfboards to a nylon mat,
he had chosen, for the solstice, a twelve-
foot foam board, on the bottom of which
he had written “FOOD.” He had also
brought along an old red canoe, which
he loaded with jugs of water, trail mix, a
thermos of miso soup, and tinned sardines,
and anchored just beyond the breakers.
“So I can eat like a seagull,” he said.
A few minutes before seven, he pad-
dled out past the breaking waves, and
then, sitting on his heels, glided into the
surf, quickly catching a gentle left peeler
and popping to his feet for a long, easy
ride. By then, he had been joined by five
or six other surfers; a rotating group of
about twenty-five would come and go
throughout the day. From time to time,
one of them would paddle over to chat,
but Grosvenor mostly kept his own coun-
sel, leisurely catching one wave after an-
other and riding each with a silent econ-
omy of motion that contrasted with some
of the hotdoggery going on around him.Raphael Warnock and Jon Ossoff
In between waves, he drifted, face down,
one cheek resting on the board, or on his
back, or sitting upright, windmilling his
arms and kicking his legs to keep warm.
In the parking lot, wetsuited men
and women stopped to read the sign on
Grosvenor’s truck. A little before noon,
an East Hampton Marine Patrol truck
rolled up and parked next to Stu Foley,
the owner of a local surf shop, who had
just got out of the water. Someone had
called to report an empty canoe float-
ing offshore.
Soon, Grosvenor’s big-haired, twenty-
five-year-old son, Mamoun, arrived,
an audiobook of Zadie Smith’s “White
Teeth” blaring from his car’s speakers. He
had brought some doughnuts for his fa-
ther, one of which he took along as he
paddled out to join him. Grosvenor’s wife,
Saskia Friedrich, an artist, showed up in
painted jeans, a puffer coat, and a purple
beanie, with their Australian shepherds,
Vishnu and Blinky. She recalled how,
when Grosvenor took her ocean kayak-
ing years ago, they noticed a large shadow
pass under their boat, and it turned out
to be a twenty-foot-long white shark.
“Jeremy’s got this almost yogic thing, al-
lowing him to enjoy activities that would
require us to overcome our natural dis-
comfort or terror,” she said.
Later, as the sun seemed to be giv-
ing up the ghost, Grosvenor told a float-
ing correspondent that the day had been
mostly easy and pleasant. Despite all
the hours in the elements, things had
never become hallucinatory, although
he had been moved to tears once, he
said, by the merging awareness of the
beauty around him and the suffering of
the world. He had managed to keep
warm, except in three of his toes, through
physical motion and deep breathing, he
said, “like a stellar sea cow.”
As dusk fell, a handful of spectators
greeted Grosvenor’s landfall with cheers.
Mamoun, wearing a “Free Palestine”
hoodie, threw his arms around his fa-
ther and, handing him the last of the
doughnuts, said, “All right! Free dough-
nut! Black lives matter!”
Grosvenor said that his day in the
ocean had been a test run for a plan to
surf twenty-four hours straight on the
summer solstice. “So many plans—that’s
the problem,” he said. “Because then
you don’t get anything done.”
—Adam Greenwith reminders. I’m not cool with the
overaggressiveness.”
An elderly woman named Aretha
got into her car and turned on her radio.
Another ad. “It’s time for a change,” she
said, turning it off. “Oh, my God, I’m
glad this day is over with.”
A text came in from a Republican
man in north Georgia, who’d voted for
Trump in November—but for Warnock
and Ossoff in the runoffs. He was an-
noyed by the ads, too. “Carpet bombing
with simplicities,” the message read. “Lies,
half-truths, fearmongering, all of it an
affront to an honest political debate.” He
added, referring to the party he’d sup-
ported most of his adult life, “Do not
vote for a party that undermines democ-
racy.” Once again, Georgia didn’t.
—Charles Bethea