Last summer surf lessons seemed like a fun family experience. I tried to surf. I did. But I was tired. I was distracted. I kept one eye on my son, one eye on my daughter, and one eye on my camera. I got up once or twice. I decided that I should stick to swimming.
Then my gal pal requested surf lessons before her move to the East Coast. I know a good company. I set it up. Four of the six gals in our group bailed. So it was just her, and me. I couldn’t let her down. So I went for it. I thought I was doing it for my friend, whose surfing opportunities are dwindling. But really, the journey is always one’s own.
No kids. I strapped my camera to my instructor. And I got up. I got up over and over again. It was a lightbulb moment. I can, I can, I can. I can surf. I can do this. And it’s fun.
Here’s my story: first I was scared. Then I got excited. I failed over and over. But it still felt great. Really great. I’m proud of myself for saying yes. I needed it. I’m still a horrible surfer. But it doesn’t matter. Every time I’m in the ocean, it’s a good day.
Here’s what the ocean tells me: you can kid yourself all day long, but we’re all going to die. Come on. Look up: it’s gorgeous.
See that? I look ridiculous. But I don’t care. I’m having a great time.
I hope whatever wave beckons you, but feels too cold, too salty, too enormous, too difficult, too-too for you, that you go ahead anyway, and find yourself breathing on the other side.
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