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What’s changed over the past decade or so is where newly acquired surfboards originate. Based on the photos I’m seeing online, it seems that most surfers in the Lone Star State don’t ride boards shaped in Texas.

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There seems to be a special day on the calendar set aside to honor or celebrate just about everything: Donuts, hamburgers, workers, bosses. You name it, and it probably has a day.

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On a rare quiet evening this week, between switching channels to dodge the Rockets’ playoff collapse, I finally had the chance to watch Lauryn LeClere’s film, “Broken Waves: Origins of a Texas Surf Cult.”

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Upper coast surfers have been spoiled over the last month or so. Each of the past few weekends we’ve been greeted by stellar surf groomed clean by offshore breezes. It appears our luck, however, has finally run out.

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Stephen Hadley is a longtime surfer who lives and works in Galveston. If you have an idea for this column, email him at stephendhadley@gmail.com.

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A few weeks back, when the Texas version of competitive surfing made its way to the island, there was Brett Hopkins, hooting from the seawall in support of his son Kris as he battled to the win in one of several heats that day.

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The water’s surface, glittering gold as the sun crested the horizon and broke through the underside of the Pleasure Pier, was smooth as glass, roughed only occasionally by the little swells sneaking through the barnacled pilings.

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I’m a surfer in my late 40s, a fact that stares back at me each morning as I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles creasing across my forehead and framing the corners of my eyes.

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While the upper Texas coast has been generally frozen for much of the week, keeping even the hardiest from attempting to catch a wave, the surfing world has been glued to big wave locations in Hawaii, Portugal and Northern California.

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The act of riding waves naturally lends itself to abundant and colorful descriptions of lively waters interacting with the bends of verdant coastlines. Sprinkle in copious amounts of travel, the inevitable lessons in patience of waiting for surf and immersion in new cultures, and you have a …

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Only surfers with the heartiest of souls and the thickest of wetsuits ventured into the water this week along the upper Texas coast.

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If you’ve ever ridden what you’d consider a magic surfboard — one that seems to meld perfectly with your abilities and the conditions to transform average sessions into otherworldly experiences — it’s likely that craft was shaped by hand.

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Surfing doesn’t follow a set schedule, say the way a football or baseball game might. There’s no printed calendar that tells you when there are going to be waves or where the best surf might be breaking on a given day.

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The new surfboard is sitting in the corner of a room in our house. It’s a beauty, shaped to perfection by a local craftsman who has been creating masterpieces for wave riders here for nearly two decades.

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There’s always been a sort of mystical connection between a surfer and his surfboard. That’s been the case from the earliest days of surfing, whether riding the original balsa boards all the way to the present polyurethane and epoxy shapes.

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The Gulf of Mexico has been doing its best Lake Galveston impression for nearly a month now. That’s been great news for beachgoers who want to swim in the placid waters and for those fishing along the beach front and the bay. But it’s bad if surfing is your thing.