The sunrise surfers wake and walk and wait in darkness through mist or rain, as gray dawn evolves an edge of yellow, pink, or paler gray. Each morning, these surfers paddle into cold wet salt to find the line where weighty water breaks and wait again for waves—flat or barrel, smooth or chop. Regardless of weather, sky, or waves, they practice balance and strength, entrance and exit. The powerful part of the wave is the pocket ahead of the break. The word love—like dude—can mean anything depending on inflection. The heart releases trauma when it loves, when it takes the drop into the tube and soars through the green room on and under the ocean. The perfect wave does not show up for us; we show up for it, embracing imperfection, even when waves draw back and expose the sea bed— even when they suck the sea bed dry and strand us in sand and rotting kelp—especially then. For love is not a gift but a job: every morning, no matter what, into the ocean. Published in Turtle Island Quarterly