I made a surf trip to an island not long ago. It was an island in the center of the sunrise. It was on this trip that I saw all three for three days straight. "Surf trip" sounds sort of trivial to describe this journey. This was not a trivial surf trip; but then hardly any is.

When some people go on a surf trip, they load up their car with boards, camping gear, food, drink, other supplies, turn the ignition key, and go. I've taken this type many times, on the East and West Coasts of the U.S. On my trip to the island in the center of the sunrise, I loaded all these things, along with my cat, on my sailboat, cast off, and set sail for points unknown. The rest of my cargo, the boards, were lightning fast and beautiful to look at, not to mention ride.

On this trip, I also took three old friends, Drummer, Dancer, and Helena. All three are able sailors who would not freak out if something goes wrong. Plus all three rip on surfboards.

Our destination was a place I had only seen once, and it wasn't on the map.

I was up at dawn, not unusual. The date was March 15, the ides of March. At the time, I was on a carpentry job, temporatily living in Boston, fifty miles North of Rhode Island, and surfing in Gloucester and off Cape Cod. On this morning, however, the sea was oil-slick glassy and smooth, with not a ripple. High pressure had moved in after the last storm and flattened the water, but it made for crystal clear, cool air, and limitless blue sky, so that I felt I could see into space when I looked up, and the horizon was so sharp and perfectly straight, the line between two imaginary dots at the corners of the world.

After loading a few loose tools into my truck, I sat on the bluff overlooking the rocky pointbreaks just north of Boston, waiting for the top edge of the sun to appear. I had to help frame a house on the bluff later, but I always paused in the morning before work, to watch the world grow light. Now, as always, the sun came up, huge and brilliant, and as always I could barely look at it for fear of burning my eyes to a crisp. I squinted to get a clearer look, but couldn't watch it for very long because it was so bright. Beauty often comes in dangerous packages, like big waves and femme fatales, and the sun is no different.

When the sun was a semi-circle on the horizon, the sky above a gigantic aura, the sea before it a blinding altar, I caught a glimpse of something I'd never seen before. There, in the center of the sun (I could only glance), was a small black dot sitting on the edge of the world. I saw it for an instant but couldn't look any longer. I glanced back, but it was gone.

Had I really seen the little black dot? Later, I checked all my maps and charts and no island appeared where my eyes told me it should be. It was outside the shipping lanes so it wasn't a tanker. It was also far from the fishing grounds, so it wasn't a big fishing boat.

For the remainder of the day no matter what I looked at (and I didn't look at the sun again), I kept thinking about the black dot in the middle of the sunrise. It had depressed my eye's rods and cones, and impressed itself on my mind, leaving its image behind like an apparition.

As I fell asleep that night, the image still on my mind, I knew I had to sail to it, to see for myself what was out there. That night I dreamt of Ishmael and Ahab, sailing across a stormy sea, standing fast against nature and facing their own demons.. When I woke up I called Drummer, Dancer and Helena. Of course each said they'd go.

Drummer, not his real name of course, is a fireplug with straw-blond hair and a narrow face. He grew up in Santa Cruz, where he battled bigger guys for priority on cold water waves. After quickly earning his art degree, he decided to forego the commercial graphics business to sail around-the-world for a year, to places like Hawaii, the Phillipines, South Africa, and Australia, and all the little spots in between. Now older and only a little more settled, he charges the bigger days in Rhode Island and points north. He's still calm and meditative, partly because he surfs big waves like they're made for him, partly because he was born that way. I knew that on the boat I could count on him no matter what comes up. I also liked the drumming. The sound was calming.

Dancer, a lithe and lovely daughter of millionaires, learned to surf and sail in New Zealand, where she was born. She comes from a long line of well-to-do merchants, people who first settled the Island almost 200 years ago. The rest of her family loves counting stacks of money, but Dancer loves to ride waves. She lives on Cape Cod, home to hollow, thick-lipped (and often empty) winter waves that come down like a lead stage curtain to pummel you into the unforgiving sand if you fall at the wrong time. She obviously never has. Her raven hair, cut short, and smooth skin are highlighted by the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Cod barrel in January. I don't know where her grace comes from, specifically. She'll explain how to get deeply pitted on a dredging overhead Cape wave the way Martha Stewart explains how to re-pot a geranium: expertly and forcefully, and with more than a hint of femininity. I have sat down for many a pint of ale with her, and she always drinks me under the table -- damn Kiwis can put it away. Talk about a woman who does it all.

Helena. What can I say about Helena except that she's appropriately named after the face that launched 1000 ships? I met her in a bookstore, where she perused Kurt Vonnegut's Galapagos, one of my favorite books. I didn't speak; I couldn't when I saw her. She asked me which book I was looking for, and I said I didn't know. I soon learned her beauty was only surpassed by her smarts -- no small feat. We now surf together whenever possible. She's an elementary school teacher at a school where all the boys have a crush on her. If they only knew how good she looks on a wave, and how well she surfs them.

We four see each other sporadically, sometimes all together, sometimes seperately. Each time we all get together it's as if no time has elapsed, and the air is alive with familiar energy, unforced and comfortable.

They say good things and bad things come in threes and I had three good things in spades on this trip. I had my boat, a 42-foot fiberglass sloop built for deep water sailing. I had my quiver of three surfboards, a 6'8" chip, a 7'8" rocket sled, and a 9' cruiser. And I had my three good friends and their own boards, along to find adventure and waves in a faraway place.