Parameters

Back when I lived near Portland I drove out to the coast just about every single Thursday to go surfing. Two hours to get there, two hours to get back. Assuming traffic is good. So that’s a four-hour round-trip, for anywhere from two to eight hours of surfing, depending on conditions and how quickly/badly I injured myself (there was this one time when I was pretty sure I’d broken my arm- fortunately I hadn’t, but it did bring my surf day screeching to a sooner-than-might-be-desired halt). Sometimes I’d only catch one good wave all day long, but I always, always felt it was worth it.

Today Mom and I made the drive back to Alabama. It took me about nine hours to get home to Birmingham. So that was eighteen hours of driving (although Mom did relieve me for two of them) for about six hours of surfing, during which I had maybe five truly good rides. Also I spent three nights sleeping on a floor with a sheet, which is not the ideal sort of rest for sore muscles.

Worth it?

I’d have to say yes. But I’d have to say it with the sort of hesitation that comes from waking up to an ankle you hadn’t realized was sprained until it stiffened up during slumber. Yes with the sort of hesitation that comes from being exhausted as hell after driving longer than you’d normally have spent working. Yes, it was worth it, but no- I couldn’t do it every week. Or even every month. But definitely more than once every two-and-a-half years. So I guess that gives us an idea of the parameters of my devotion.

To tell the truth I have a bit of fear in my belly, now that I’m back. It was so joyful to be surfing again (especially yesterday’s experience) and I have that joy still racing through my bloodstream, buoying me up. But the flipside to that is that I’m dreading the gradual loss of the joy. The way it will inevitably drain away and I will have to go back to longing for it. And not being able to have it. And crying because I miss it so badly. And I know I shouldn’t think about that- I should focus on the now-happiness rather than the coming-despair, lest I taint the Now, but it’s hard.

Hubris

I did not get up early to go surfing all by my lonesome today- instead I managed to coax some companionship in return for a promise to let them sleep in. As such, it wasn’t until just before 1500 that I hit the beach with my mom and aunt (the girls elected to nap- darn screwy teenage circadian cycles). It turned out for the best, however, because the waves were far superior to those I was dealing with yesterday.

Of course, first I had to make the appropriate sacrifice to the Oceanids. Remember all that smack talk from yesterday about gentle waves and being able to surf with my sunglasses on? Um, color me hubristic. I went leaping into the water for a little pre-surf frolic whilst wearing said eye protection, and guess who Took Their Due. Yup. So I forfeited my sweet shades in return for some truly surf-able waves. I’d call that a damn good return on my investment.

Mom and Steph elected to watch my performance from the relatively safe confines of their beach loungers, and I’m pleased to report that I gave them something worth witnessing on my first attempt. Beautiful, perfect, lovely wave that I caught and rode like someone who actually knows what they’re doing. I even stepped gracefully off at the end, rather than my typical hapless bailout (from whence the epic bruising on my knees arises). So that was pretty fantastic, and they cheered, their mental preconception of my Surfing Prowess confirmed. I, of course, knew from previous experience that I had just officially blown my Talent Wad on the first wave of the day, and that from there on out it would be nothing but hilarious mishaps. I didn’t have the heart to shatter their illusions verbally, however- I knew my subsequent performances would eventually get it across.

No really- I wasn’t that pathetic. But I did pretty much hit my peak on that first wave. Plenty of flailing and falling and “I guess I’ll just surf this one on my knees as though I intended to flub the pop-up,” ensued, but Mom and Steph continued to be convinced that I was truly Epic. Bless their biased little brains.

There were a few other surfers out there with me, running the gamut from raw beginners to effortless artists. I was disappointed to find that the surfing culture does not, in general, appear to be as friendly as that which I’d grown accustom to in Oregon. I expressed my sadness at this to Mom, and she pointed out (and rightly so) that to be a surfer in cold-ass Oregon waters you have to really love surfing- you get out there to do it because you’re dedicated to it, and you’re necessarily stoked to meet anyone else with that same level of love and dedication (and okay touch of insanity). In Jacksonville people can afford to be sort of “Meh,” about surfing, because they can do it pretty much whenever the hell they get a whim- they live on the beach, and it’s warm all the time, and the waves trend towards the very-easy-to-catch (my latter performance notwithstanding). So the ratio of rude-holes is bound to be higher.

Still. I can’t help but be a smidge resentful that people take what is to me a great and joyous spiritual experience and turn it into an occasion to be an off-putting jerk. Now I guess I have an inkling of what a lot of my Christian friends experience on a regular basis…

Ruli Wakes

I got up semi-early this morning and began the pre-surf ritual. The main component of said ritual is stripping down, pinning my hair up, and slathering myself with waterproof, sweat-proof SPF 30. Then, of course, there is the bagel eating portion of the ritual, followed by the strapping-Ruli-to-her-rack part.

You may not understand when I tell you that the drive over there was filled less with anticipation and more with dread. In a way all I wanted to do was turn around and go back to bed: I felt downright sick to my stomach. I thought about it then and I’ve thought about it since then, and I’ve decided that what it came down to was fear; fear that I wouldn’t remember how to do it, that I would be once more reduced to an utter kook making a fool of herself- but worse than that, the fear that it just wouldn’t be the same. That the joy and passion I once felt was only a wishful-dream of a memory, not and just as intangible.

When I arrived at the beach is was pretty empty- only a handful of joggers and walkers, and two guys with a short board learning how to use it. I smiled with nostalgia and thought to myself- please don’t let me fall down more than they do. As many times is fine, but just not more…

I’ll be honest- it was not good surf. But it wasn’t flat, either, which means that the waves were a hell of a lot better than they would have been in Birmingham, so I’m not complaining. In fact, I felt downright grateful for those teensy little swells that I knew would help ease me back in to the feel of things without threatening to drown me.

I unzipped Ruli (she travels in a pretty sturdy board bag, since I tend to have to take her ridiculous distances) and put on a fresh coat of wax- I was a little nervous about that, since I only had cold water wax with me and the last time I surfed in Jacksonville the water was warm as blood. It turned out, however, that the water was plenty cool enough to keep the wax in place (and me from wanting to die from lack of refreshment).

We eased into the water cautiously- although the calm meant I didn’t have to worry about losing my balance while I stood on one foot and strapped my leash to the opposite ankle. Then I walked her out a little deeper, keeping my fingers lightly on her back until it was deep enough for me to slip on and start paddling.

As soon as I was on I realized that I was in the wrong spot on the board- so I shimmied backwards until I felt the proper balance my body remembered. Then it was one clean stroke after another as I drew myself out to where I could see the little waves peaking. I have to say that a part of me didn’t mind one bit that I didn’t have to battle frigid white water to get out. It was definitely not a bad thing to not be exhausted before I even attempted the first wave.

I picked my spot and sat up, automatically shifting my weight to swing Ruli’s nose back toward the shore. I only had to sit maybe thirty seconds before I saw the tell-tale wrinkle that told me I’d be able to ride it in. Theoretically.

Down on my stomach I went, falling back into the familiar rhythm of paddle-paddle-paddle- then I felt the wave reach me and I felt the tiny drop that means Ruli is well and truly set and then…

I wish I could say that I triumphantly sprang to my feet and rode in on a blaze of glory, all my former hard-won skill undiminished by the passing of years. But the truth is that I lay there on my stomach and let myself be carried in while I re-familiarized myself with the movement of a wave. Time enough for standing on the next one.

And I did stand on the next one, for a whole split second, although it was the most awkward damn pop-up the world has ever seen. My body remembers a lot about how it should move while surfing, but not, apparently, how to properly place my damn feet. Nor how to keep my ass out of the air. A pop-up should be one fluid movement from prone position to crouched- mine was more like a pop-and-lock gone horribly wrong.

And yet.

And yet, even though the faulty pop-up was repeated several times (and yes, even the belly-ride to shore got repeated) I did manage to nail it once- and then again. And I remembered what it was to surf again.

I will admit that the joy was neither as deep nor as fierce as what I have felt in the past- but I think that has a lot to do with the fact that the Atlantic and I are Just Friends- whereas the Pacific and I have something of a Passionate Love Affair going on. Don’t get me wrong- I enjoy hanging out with the Atlantic, she’s a cool anthropomorphized body of water and all- but there’s just something about the Pacific that really stirs my blood and makes my heart sing.

It’s possible that it’s the raw power of the Pacific. I go in there and I know damn good and well that I could die- in a very serious way she could crush my body and fling it lifeless to the shore, or hold it down until the air has disappeared from my lungs. I step into her and I surrender to her- she lets me ride her- or she doesn’t. Whereas the Atlantic tends to be so mellow that I can wear my sunglasses in without fear of losing them.

But whatever. It’s a start.

On The Road Again

My alarm went off at 0500 this morning, and I was out of bed without the slightest bit of protest- such are the miraculous feats I’m capable of when there’s surfing involved. We were on the road before 0630, our bellies full of bread and cheese and our luggage stowed carefully in the back seat. Girly road trip, activate!

I’d checked out three different audio books from the library, but as it turned out we didn’t listen to any of them on the way down- just a cd mix on repeat (thanks Anna!) and a non-stop flow of words. We both missed my brother’s presence in the car- it was odd to make the trip without him. One of the topics we touched on was the Someday Home that Nathan and I like to design. The Someday Home has many fine amenities- including music and art studios, heated floors, an herb and vegetable garden, and a separate Mother-In-Law cottage for my mom to come stay in whenever she wants.

It took us about seven hours to get here- not bad, all things considered. Lunch with the girls and then shopping for a new rash guard (possibly there will be pictures… possibly) before we headed over to see my grandmother at her swank new assisted-living place. It’s not so bad, as far as these things go, but as we were kidnapping her for dinner we heard someone yelling, over and over, “Oh God, please help me! Oh God, please help me!” so I went into the room to investigate. It was a little old woman who calmed down when she saw me. I introduced myself, but she said she didn’t know her name. I asked if she wanted me to get someone for her, and she said she did- she wanted help, and clutched at her chest. I went back down to the front desk and told them, then returned to sit with her while she waited. I rubbed her arm for comfort, and as we talked I found her name written on her chair- Alma. The subject of family came up and I told her how many cousins my husband has, which made her laugh. Finally someone arrived to check on her, and I left. On my way out the orderly told me that she didn’t need any help, “That’s just her. She wants someone to be there with her all the time, and we just can’t do that.” I didn’t like her dismissive tone.

Later in the car I related the story to my mother, and she put her hand on my knee and said, “I can still come to stay in the mother-in-law cottage, right?”

Always.