I unexpectedly finished the book I'd brought with me to Seattle when my American Airlines flight lasted 11 hours instead of 6, but my friend Megan saved the day when she handed me this.

I'd read an excerpt from William Finnegan's memoir in the New Yorker and had liked it, but not being a surfer I hadn't felt compelled to rush out and track down the thing. Man, am I glad it ended up crossing my path.

Finnegan's love for surfing transcends its subject. Sure, this is a book about surfing but more broadly this is a book about committing yourself to the thing you love. Reading Finnegan's gorgeous accounts of a life spent finding waves and watching waves and learning waves and riding waves made me think about writing, the same way I suspect it will make a painter think about painting, and a runner think about running. It's ultimately a love poem to pursuing one's art, whatever that art may be.