Relay: Palm Sunday In Montauk

Water temperature, 37 to 40 degrees, variable; air temperature, 33 to 41 degrees, variable; snow, two to three inches expected during daylight hours. Gray rain bands, long as the imagination, are in clear view off the coastline of Montauk, New York. The land is an iceberg of sorts — so cold. Snowy ravines along a coastline anointed by lengthy patches of snow beneath and above the coastal dune line.

A few hardy surfers cruise the Montauk area, surfboards racked atop their cars, in back of their trucks. Snow, ice, and occasional freezing rain pelt Montauk. A surfer floating about 150 yards offshore catches a nice five-foot wave, rides it smoothly. The surfer disappears inside the barrel of the wave before it closes out. Guess you call that a cold wipeout!

A surfer riding a Jet Ski lands at the I.G.A. beach. The young man had done some surf reconnaissance of the second sandbar off the village. Raw cylindrical waves continue peeling into all quadrants off Montauk’s coastline.

Sometime during this winter past, quizzical surfers considered a long-asked question: If the saltwater in the Atlantic Ocean is close to freezing temperature, technically partially frozen, can one still surf? Some surfers envisioned possibilities of their surfboards sinking due to physics — or stopping or slowing down. Delusional thoughts for humans are common during surf sessions when air and sea temperatures combined do not add up to 70 degrees, or thereabouts, give or take . . . sometimes take more or take less.

Stormy Saturday passes, Palm Sunday arrives. Many throughout East Hampton Town have already visited the Stations of the Cross at various churches — or thought about it. Church bells ring. The air is brisk in the way it can be only along the North Atlantic Seaboard. Surfers arrive at Montauk listening to rock music . . . sing it, Mick. The Memory Motel slips by, as it always does.

“I would have done anything for you . . . there was a time.” Guns N’ Roses music blares like a windstorm into the air at super-loud decibels from a surfer’s car perched above a surf spot in a small parking lot before the village of Montauk. A yuppie arrives at the parking lot: max-manicured clothes with stubby beard and new boots. Thirty-something rich Ivy League type, perhaps. Or a well-to-do hipster? The visitor thinks, “These guys have gone mad . . . they’re surfing?”

Dressed like a model, a young lady steps from the yuppie’s luxurious S.U.V., wondering why surf guys are dressing with no abandon into and out of their wetsuits. If she doesn’t want to see the winter-pallor skin of local guys suiting up for the Sunday surf — do not look.

Somewhere in the mix a robust, fit young lady suits up to surf. She disrobes, puts on her wetsuit. She couldn’t give a hoot if someone sees her in her birthday suit.

In the west parking lot of Ditch Plain, an attractive Montauk mom asks her husband, “Where are the kids?” The husband responds, “Ten feet high and 30 yards behind your right shoulder.”

The children have amassed on one of the many snow-ice plateaus that have grown to tennis-court size in the parking lots — snow removal from roads. Snow piled 10 feet high and 20 yards by 40 yards, frozen to a slick flat. A snowballer’s dream! Nine children atop this platform toss snowballs and mimic Michael Jackson dance moves, “Dancing With the Stars” competitors, or who knows?

The mother looks over her shoulder gleefully at the boys and girls, thinking, “What a beautiful sight.” Early spring sun cascades, projecting a billion watts of light.

A grandfather pulls up in his truck with a big surfboard accompanied by an attractive lady. Excitedly, the man mentions his grandchild is coming to watch him surf! He goes directly into the sparkling sea at Ditch Plain, mentioning the flood tide. A surfer standing close by wearing a black hat, still in wetsuit from his last surf session, ponders, “That grandfather knows the Stations of the Cross.” That grandfather also knows about the flood tide. He owns a successful 80-foot commercial fishing vessel.

It is Palm Sunday in Montauk.

A hitchhiker carrying a backpack is picked up by a surfer driving west on the Napeague stretch. The tall hitchhiker shines at the ride. He is in his 60s, in dark sunglasses. The man delivers a short sermon on things as they are. He is retired from sanitation. His son, 17 years old, is a black belt in tae kwon do, a whiz at trigonometry.

The driver describes his son: age 14 years, 6 feet, 215 pounds, smart as a galaxy. Both men conclude: It certainly is a new generation, maybe a better generation!

The hitchhiker is driven to the East Hampton train station. Goodbye, traveler, be well!

Morgan McGivern is The Star’s staff photographer.