INTRODUCTION

I was home in Amityville for the summer, surfing Montauk at a spot called Ditch Plains. A short left over a rock bottom. A classic East Coast wave. The sun was out. The water was cold. It was summer, but the water didn’t get the message. It was a beautiful day.

Then, in an instant, the fog rolled in. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I couldn’t see the beach. I couldn’t see the next set. I couldn’t see the other guys in the lineup. Everything I used to find my way was gone.

My girlfriend, now my wife, was somewhere on that beach, and I couldn’t see her. And I knew what was under me. Rocks. Take the wrong wave in, blind, and you find them the hard way.

So I stopped. I sat on my board and listened. The shore break was still there, behind me. The waves were still coming; I just couldn’t see them. The beach hadn’t moved. I stayed put and kept listening. Before I really knew what to do, the fog lifted, and I went back to surfing.

Emotions work the same way. Anger, frustration, fear. They roll in fast, on a good day, when you’re not looking. All of a sudden you can’t see what’s in front of you, and you don’t know what to do.

That’s the fog.

Fishermen and sailors have dealt with fog forever. The Baymen on the Great South Bay know how to read the elements: the wind, the tide, the water. When the fog came in and they couldn’t see the shore, they got home by dead reckoning. They trusted their instruments: compass, clock, speed. They knew where they started, which way they were headed, and how long they’d been going. From that, they knew where they were, and they steered.

You have an instrument too: your breath. When the fog rolls in, the breath settles you down and brings you back to what you know. It connects you with where you want to go. Then you make the right decision.

In the ocean, I could sit and wait. In a match, the next ball is already coming. In a race, the next stroke is due. So you do what the Baymen do: stop, breathe, check your instruments, and set your heading. Then go back to work.

THE FOG

You know it when it hits. The ref missed a call. A teammate said something at the break. The last race went bad. Your touch is off or your stroke feels heavy, and you can’t say why. Your jaw is tight. Your breath is short. You’re running hard or pulling hard, but you’re not in the game. Your body is on the field or in the boat. Your head is somewhere else.

CLEAR IT

AWARE: Want it. Catch it. Say it to yourself: “I’m in the fog.” You can’t clear what you won’t admit is there.

ACCEPT: Love it. Stop fighting it. Being mad at being mad only makes the fog thicker. Drop your shoulders. Take one full breath. Feel the ball at your feet, or the paddle in your hands and the water on the blade.

COMPLETE: Live it. Do the next thing. Win the next ball. Take the next stroke. Do your job.

DEAD RECKONING

Your breath is your instrument.

When the fog rolls in, the heart races, the jaw tightens, and the eyes narrow. The breath is the one part of that you can run on purpose. Four moves, in order of the day.

Chart the Course

Before the game or race

Box breath: in 4, hold 4, out 4, hold 4. Five rounds, seated. Know where you’re headed before the fog shows up.

Hold the Heading

In play

Don’t hold your breath under pressure. Breathe out through the hard moment: the tackle, the sprint, the last 500. A long exhale keeps the hands soft and the eyes up.

Find the Shore

When the fog hits

A bad call, a mistake, a flip. Two quick inhales through the nose, one long exhale through the mouth. One to three times. Then do the next thing.

Make Port

After

In for 4, out for 8. Two minutes. Let the engine come all the way down. That’s the Completion marker.

Why It Works

The breath turns the volume down without taking you out of the game. And it runs the Hammah: notice the breath (Aware), let the tension go on the exhale (Accept), finish on a slow breath (Complete).

Practice breath-holds on land only, never in or on the water.

IN THE CANOE

Harrison Deisroth · 1st Lt., U.S. Air Force, C-17 Pilot

When did the fog hit you in a race?

I was near the front and doing well, but I let the pressure get to me. I tensed up, it broke my flow, and I flipped.

How did you find your line again?

I got back in and named why I’d flipped. I accepted it, told myself to breathe, settle, and stay calm, and trusted the work I’d put in. I dug back into the race.

How do pilots handle it in the cockpit?

We fall back on fundamentals. Simulator hours mean that when the fog rolls in, we trust our instruments, talk to our crew, and stay ahead of the aircraft.

“In combat, the plan will change. The mission won’t.”

— Harrison Deisroth

IN THE MATCH

Coach Popo Salami · Club Pateadores · Irvine, CA

A bad call, a mistake, or frustration with how I was playing would get in my head. Instead of focusing on what was in front of me, I kept thinking about what had already happened. I was on the field, but my mind was somewhere else.

Distraction can take you out of a game without taking you off the field.

What brought you back?

I learned to let go of what I couldn’t change. I took a breath, talked to my teammates, and locked in on the next pass, the next ball, the right position. Once I stopped worrying about the last moment and focused on my next job, the fog began to clear.

What do you tell your players?

I bring them back to the present instead of adding more pressure. I keep it simple: “Forget the last play. It never happened. You are still good and delicious. Focus on the next ball.” Then I remind them to breathe, talk, and get back to the basics they know.

“Mistakes are part of the game. What matters is how fast you reset, refocus, and get back to playing.”

— Popo Salami

YOUR LOG

Sailors keep a log. Keep yours.

When did the fog hit you last?

What did it feel like? Jaw, breath, hands, eyes.

What was still there that you could hear or feel?

Next time: which breath, and what is the next thing you do?