I know I should probably just jump in and get this over with. The water isn’t actually that cold as I step in, one toe at a time. But, my anxiety needs the torture. So, I inch my way into this tepid water. Shivering, feet immersed, my hypochondria kicks in: Am I getting hypothermia? Never have I ever acted like such a wuss. I take that back. There have been one, two, three, maybe four occasions (more specifically related to my fear of heights) where I’ve chickened out. NOEL YOU GOT THIS!
Me: Ahhhhh. It’s fucking wet!
My Surf Instructor: No shit. You’re in water.
This is a new instructor. I’ve been rotating them to see who has the most patience. Or, more so I don’t get on their nerves. I’m that kid in class constantly asking “why,” the classic “are we there yet” kid.
Him: Noel, this is white wash. Just pop up! Me: But, whyyyyyyyyyyy?
Okay, surfing isn’t actually that scary. If you tell yourself every wave is just white wash (even when it isn’t) it’s much easier to just “pop up.” And, somehow I’ve managed to find a perverse attraction to riding a wave. Is that weird? It’s almost a sexual charge from dominating the water. Because, after knocking me down so many times, I get off when I finally catch a break. I catcall to the ocean: “Yeah, you fucking love me don’t you?” (This inappropriate habit of yelling obscenities might be why a few instructors have quit.)
Most surfers take a more zen approach. At least, from what I’ve seen in Venice Beach, the regulars practice like some sort of religious experience. And, unfortunately, a bit of their mojo infected me. Because, in moments of stillness, while waiting for the next wave, I find myself thinking this must be what Heaven feels like. But, my bliss is always interrupted by nagging thoughts like, “Is that shark?!” And, “they really should make a waterproof pocket for phones in wetsuits.” I would be the one to complain in Heaven: “There’s just too much relaxation! The lack of drama is soooo draining.”
I didn’t take up surfing to adopt its zen gospel, but rather to look cool (and impress my dry cleaner…but that’s another story). If I don’t get an epic video of me riding a wave to post on Instagram, then what’s the point? My ego berated me into the water each morning, nine foot soft-board in tote, until finally the ocean beat it into submission. After crashing so many times, I eventually gave in to a powerful current of stillness and forced detachment from my phone.
Although I was a bit more zen, I was nowhere near nirvana by the time I learned to ride a wave without almost dying. (Did I mention I don’t know how to swim?)
My Ego: YOU’RE JUST A POSER. Me: Shut up! I’ll pop up!!
My Ego: Catch it. This is a good one. It’s coming… UGH. What the frack are you doing?
Me: I was too big.
My Ego: That’s what she said…. Okay, here’s another one!
Paddle, paddle, paddle, doggy paddle… I get up, but my footing is off and I crash, gulping salt water under the current.
My Ego (or the instructor… I honestly can’t tell after swallowing so much salt water): You didn’t pop up on time!
Me: STOP YELLING AT ME.
My Surf Instructor: Everything okay over there? Me & the voices in my head: Gnarly.
I shoot him a hang ten sign.
My Ego: Gnarly? Me: Jesus. I know.
Another wave approaches when, finally, everyone’s quiet. And, centered in the rhythm of the tide, I RIP it!
Me: Take that you blue beast! Yeah! Fuck yeah!
I yell to the wave as I ride it to shore and notice a seven-year-old — who’s been quite frankly showing off in waves twice her size — staring. A homeless man on the Venice Beach boardwalk hollers back at me: “Amen!” At least someone’s impressed.
Me: I hope you filmed that! I have to post it!
My surfing instructor gives me a weird look. I think it’s time to find another.