Civil twilight. Over the course of this past long year in California, it鈥檚 the one time of day I鈥檝e allowed myself a sense of Before Times听normalcy. It鈥檚 during , when the stars still mingle with the moon in the sky but the sun announces that it鈥檚 on its way, that I鈥檝e maintained a tenuous hold on the outside world through surfing.
I鈥檝e been surfing听for the past decade near my home听in the Bay Area, but during the pandemic听it has become a near daily habit. In deepest winter, I鈥檒l wake at听5:30 A.M.听so I have a little time for coffee and a quick stretch. I鈥檒l fill up a jug with hot water and load it in the car, along with my wetsuit, still dank and a little musty from yesterday. The surfboards are already packed up. The stars are still crisp against the night sky. I often see Venus.听But there鈥檚 been an imperceptible shift when the sun hits 18 degrees below the horizon.听It turns out that there are gradients of dawn, and they all have a name. This moment is the听first:听astronomical dawn.
It鈥檚 still dark, and will remain so until I鈥檓 almost at the beach. The sun, creeping听from 18 to 12 degrees below the horizon, is working its way through astronomical twilight.听The roads are quiet, but the world is waking up. Lights flicker on in houses, and solitary runners with headlamps begin to dot the sidewalks and trails. By 12 degrees, nautical dawn, early-morning traffic starts to slow on the Bay Bridge, which I cross en route to Pacifica or San Francisco鈥檚 Ocean Beach.听Yet听the night still hangs on, enough so that I can鈥檛 quite make out the faces of the other surfers听when I arrive. We chat from a car鈥檚 length as we suit up and try to see what the waves are doing. I have to use the flashlight on my phone to find the wax at the bottom of my bag.
When the sun is听six degrees below the horizon, it鈥檚 civil dawn. Thus听begins听civil twilight, the phase when the sun makes its final move to the horizon. The sky brightens. This is when we paddle out, hoping to steal some uncrowded time with the waves.
I like this phrase鈥攃ivil dawn. I like the sense that, when we鈥檙e in the water, we are respectful of the ocean and each other, together but apart. There is room for generosity. Few of us are out at this hour, so听we have plenty of space听and a quiet lineup. In these moments听just before day breaks, it鈥檚 possible to surf by the glow of both the moon and sun听if the time of month is right. Sometimes we surf by the glow of the Pacifica Taco Bell听if the lights are on. At Ocean Beach, the container ships blink just offshore.
Surfers can be a grouchy, territorial lot. All it takes is one person dropping in on you听to generate awful thoughts about humankind.听But I try to be my best self out there. I smile and say good morning and look before I go for a wave. By and large, the people I see at civil twilight are doing the same.听We are existing in a liminal space, between night and day, ending and beginning. Together and alone. The neither-nor听quality of this period is somehow inclusive. In its fuzzy borders, I feel that we take more care.
To many, twilight suggests finality: the end of a day, the end of a career, the end of a life. But twilight bookends the day, presenting itself both at the beginning and the end. It is an in-between period, during听which the sun isn鈥檛 yet visible听but the earth is neither completely illuminated nor completely dark. It is a soft and scattering glow, the promise of both day and night held together.
I catch a wave, and in the moment I鈥檓 flying down the face, my focus is acutely intent:听I am, however briefly, free of the world鈥檚 cares. That present sense of lightness is joyful. It鈥檚 because of surfing that I still know how to smile when things are otherwise grim. The unusually big swells of this winter season have also forced me to be prepared, push my limits, and handle rogue waves and hold-downs and other people鈥檚 flying boards and bodies. I know to expect the unexpected.
Civil dawn ends at sunrise. I stay for another hour or so, navigating the lineup until there are too many people听for my comfort, both as a surfer and as a human mid-pandemic. I head home, back to a schedule of virtual work and virtual school and virtual community. I put on my force field and mask up with my sons for walks around the block or to the corner store. I stay inside and make dinner with my husband and read books and watch movies. Tomorrow听we鈥檒l do it all again.
We鈥檙e awaiting听the light at the end of the tunnel after doing this strange work鈥攁 low-level hibernation into the murk of a largely interior existence, intimate with our familiars in a too small space, in order to survive the raging uncertainty of a pandemic听and the unrest of a divided body politic. In December, color technology and design company听: Ultimate Gray and Illuminating. Normally, there鈥檚 just one hue, but it turns out we need both鈥攖he dark and the light鈥攖o accurately represent the arc of the coming year.
The civil dusk of an old year and era merges and moves through night听into the civil dawn of a new one. Perhaps this is the spark听after the darkness. I am preparing for reentry, into a changed new world that is only just making itself visible. And听though it might not feel like it quite yet, so are you.