The shift ends at eight. By the time I've handed over, changed, and got the car out of the hospital garage it's nine, and Ericeira is fifty minutes if the A8 behaves. The forecast said chest-high and glassy until eleven. That's a window. I have never in my life closed a window.
Here's what nobody tells you about surfing after a night shift: your body is furious, and then it isn't. The first duck-dive is like being slapped by someone who loves you. The cold gets into the parts of your brain that were still in the ward, still counting, still listening for the monitor, and it turns them off.
I caught five waves. Nothing special. A long left that I rode until it turned into foam and I fell off laughing. Then I sat on the board for twenty minutes doing absolutely nothing, which is the actual sport.
Slept from one to seven. Woke up starving and happy and with sand in the bed. Back on at eight. The trick, if there is one, is that the sea doesn't know what day it is either.
