Since my pre-pubescent years, I’ve wanted to pickle my feet in ocean brine all over the world.

I want to dip my digits in water at every hemisphere, river mouth, off-shore a-frame and coastal beach there is. Shit, I’d surf on the moon if there was water.

I want to be able to tell which ocean I’m surfing in simply by the amount of stinging pain that that particular region’s salt water produces in my nose.

But at the moment, I don’t have the time — won’t allow myself the time — to be a wave crusader all day and night. My inner surf bum is an anxious and neurotic man who wants to have a job that one day provides him with the cash to travel the world for surf and buy his future children wetsuits to start their stoke. For now, I have to do something to stave off the surf withdrawals. My answer is surf porn.

There’s a range of paraphernalia you can access by passing grubby Surfer magazines between roommates, perusing a pristine copy of The Surfer’s Journal at shops on the sly, or by downloading some good ol’ fashioned Surfline content. Perhaps you can catch a little voyeur action from a beach or balcony.

Surf porn, though, is not the real thing.

Still, your best way to experience the thrill of the paddle-out, the rush of the drop and the calmness of the tube is to indulge your imagination. Saturate your brain with salty spray and howling off-shores.

Take a moment before you sleep and picture yourself climbing down a frigid rocky trail with a board under one arm, leash slung across a shoulder with your neoprene zipped tight all the way to the neck. Or picture a slabby day at Teahupoo in board shorts, a week of cobblestone point break perfection in Central America, an empty head-high set at Trestles or a two-foot wave at Devereaux, for example.

At the moment, the surf flick playing in my head stars yours truly, cutting through a heavy Northern California paddle-out with ease, and charging massive hollow beach breaks, getting shack after shack after shack, barrels for miles just frothing out of my head, etc. You can see how it goes in my future — perhaps fictional — surf world.

But maybe when you imagine it, your board is a towel next to a pool/hot tub combo overlooking a beach where drinks are catered along with vegetables and fruits and glitter and who knows what else.

The point I am getting to here is that hope floats. The exact substance of your surf dreams doesn’t matter as much as the desire that propels your mental strokes.

Don’t let the ripples in your brain become a placid lake. Stir things up. Send yourself some south swells to take away the dreariness of a foggy day in the library. Maybe one day that wish can be reality. And when it happens, the sensation won’t resemble the peeling apart of two pages of a surf magazine that have become stuck together … with wax.

The pages of Daily Nexus surf columnist Elliott Rosenfeld’s mind have become stuck together too, but not with wax.