#76: Diary of a Cursed First-Time Surfer Girl

HUMOR

7:00am

Wake up ready to live out my Rocket Power dreams. I am not a morning person, but today’s activity is straight from my LA vision board, so I’m up and at ‘em.

Up and Adam. There’s got to be a better way to turn that phrase to cleverly reveal that Adam was also up. But hey, you’re reading a concussion origin story so you legally have to cut me some slack.

Adam, our early bird perpetually full of worms, is a bit more hesitant about the activity to come. But I’m excited so he’s excited.

7:37am

We circle the Ocean Park lot searching for a spot. It is, apparently, walk-a-thon season. Swarms of people linger and mingle in matching shirts. They’re in the standing portion of the walk-a-thon and we’d really prefer they go ahead and start walking out of our way.

Finally, we find a spot and make our way to the tricked-out school bus taking up a bold three spots. We meet our 40-year-old ripped Costa Rican surf instructor named Jonathon, and we wait for the others.

8:00am

The others didn’t show. Our group lesson became a private one in the 15-minute grace period in which we waited. Hell yeah.

Jonathan sizes us up purely with his eyes (seems risky) and hands us wetsuits. Putting on a wetsuit sucks. They’re tight and surprisingly stiff in their shapeliness. Getting one on is a war of limbs and fabric. And once it’s on, it’s very hard to adjust. By the time I was fully zipped in, there was a thin layer of sweat festering between me and the suit.

8:15am

We carry the 9-foot, supposedly “very light” surfboards with the tips of our fingers on only one hand. They’re those foamy longboards with an inch-deep “handle” (it’s literally just a divot) carved into the middle. Since when does surfing require insane finger strength?

We carry the monstrosities on our fingertips for a quarter mile. That sounds like an exaggeration, but I would bet the cost of one of those stick roller measuring tape thingies that the distance from the back of the Ocean Park lot to the edge of the water is close to 400m. (And I know 400m!) Honestly, it feels like longer but I’m trying to be a reliable narrator here. Trudging through the sand adds emotional miles.

8:30am

Yes, I really think the walk took 15 minutes. My forefingers throb. I plunk my board on the sand and shake out my arm with the vigor of a teen who just finished the essay portion of the SAT. Sweet sore relief.

Jonathan goes over some safety precautions. We are only to fall off backwards to avoid hitting our heads. You never want to be in front of your board or the wave will bring it to you. Hard. Because we’re surf babies with a pro’s supervision, he doesn’t go into much surf etiquette, but the headline is: stay out of everyone else’s way. Always have control of your board. Are there sharks in the water? Oh yes.

Jonathan teaches us how to pop up. We pretend to paddle. Belly aligned with the middle of the board, toes cresting the edge. He says, “Up!” We plant our hands on either side of our torsos, arch our backs, send our front foot forward (left for me, right for Adam), and our back foot follows. Arms come up, back one for balance, front for pointing toward our eyeline (at this point, the horizon). Jonathan comments that we both seem limber. Adam and I exchange a look. We’re not exactly what you’d call flexible. But I guess we’ll take it.

“Up!” I’m not very good at this, even on the sand.

“Up!” That one was a little better but it took me ten years.

“Up!” Faster but terrible form. I’ll get the next one.

“Alright, you guys! I think you’re ready for the water!”

Guess the next one I’ll get in the water. Great!

8:45am

Turns out paddling out is incredibly difficult and perhaps impossible, even. Every surfer you’ve ever seen probably has a secret little motor on the bottom of their board. They’re just paddling for show. That is the only logical explanation.

I walk my board out until I can’t touch anymore. Coincidentally, it’s also the point at which I can no longer believably act as if I cannot hear Jonathan shouting “Hop on! Paddle! Paddle!”

I hop on and attempt to paddle over to him.

“Okay, I’m going to send you on a wave. I’ll tell you when to pop up. Listen to my voice.”

I nod. Before my head has returned to neutral, he’s sent me on a wave.

“Up!”

I hear him. My ears told my brain, we hear him! But when my brain tried to tell my body, she said, lol you wish.

“Up! Up! Up!”

I try to override my body’s hesitation. I arch my back, plant my hands. My front leg comes through.

SPLAP!

That was the splash slap of my face hitting the water. I fall.

Gurgling salt water, I surface, exhilarated. In recent years, I’ve begun holding my nose underwater. I never did this as a kid because my Papaw, who has an ‘ool (there’s no P in his pool and he has a sign to prove it), made a rule that no nose pluggers could swim on his watch. So he trained us to swim without nose plugging, and I got along fine for years. Then I didn’t swim for a while as an adult and when I got back into it, I started pluggin. When I didn’t plug, I stuttered and choked and burned all my pipes with chlorine.

When I splapped into roiling sea off my surfboat, I didn’t have time to plug my nose or even consider plugging. But it was alright. No plugging necessary. The salt water passed right through my nasal cavities and throat and probably the space between my brain and skull easily and just as easily right back out again. It felt natural. (I’m a cancer after all. Hello ocean! Hello tides!)

I right myself, secure my board, and start walking it back to where Jonathan is standing, sending Adam on his first wave. Adam’s ride is imperfect but undeniably impressive for a first try. He gets nearly upright before tumbling into the churn. Capricorns. They’re good at everything.

9:15am

The falling and splapping have continued for some time. Adam has already ridden at least three decent waves. I have yet to properly catch one. Although I have ridden a few kneeling. This is not a stepping stone to standing. At least not according to Jonathan. I am not supposed to be kneeling at all, but my body has deemed it safer than standing, and clearly she is in control here.

I must say, in an effort to honor my personal growth, I have an incredible attitude throughout this hour of failure. I’m enjoying being in the water. I’m laughing when I fall. I’m grateful for my innate surrender to the waves. But Jonathan isn’t having it. Jonathan doesn’t give a shit about my having overcome some aspect of my overachieving perfectionist complex. He wants me to freaking surf! He knows I can! He wants me to get upset so I succeed!

Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan. Say no more. You need someone to shame themself into succeeding? I was born for this.

I slap the water on either side of my board. “I’m upset!”

“You’re upset!” he cries.

I begin to paddle. He sends my board.

“UP!”

Arch. Hands plant. Left foot forward. Right foot up. No knee! I’M SURFING! I’M STANDING UPRIGHT ON A SURFBOARD RIDING A WAVE! I’M STILL RIDING IT! WOW THESE WAVES ARE LONGER THAN I IMAGINED! I’M STILL GOING! I’M SMILING LIKE A FOOL! A GLORIOUS, SURFING FOOL! There’s a hitch in the wave. My board tilts to the left. I try to lean into it. Mistake. I tumble into the water.

Just as I start to surface, a wave crashes down on my face. I’m churning under the wave, like sneakers in the washing machine. I feel the leash tug around my ankle. This isn’t right. I’m in front of my board instead of behind it. I clock this at a moment in the churn in which I’m not sure which way is down. I feel sand. There. I try to anchor myself until the wave passes, carrying my board with it. Another wave comes, spinning me again. This time, up. I crown, the air on my scalp, then—

BAM!

My board slams into the back of my head. I wince.

“Are you okay?” Jonathan starts to move toward me in the water.

I wipe on a smile and whip around. “I’m fine!” I’m embarrassed.

9:30am

I’ve ridden one more wave, successfully, since that last one. In fact, the second wave I caught, I rode all the way into the sand so I could just step right off like a proper amateur giddy with progress.

I’m now paddling back out to Jonathan completely exhausted. Adam rides past me as I struggle to paddle out over the waves. I whoop! He’s easily ridden seven or eight successfully. I’m proud and impressed. We’ve spoken solely in encouraging whoops! since getting in the water.

Remember when I was psyched our lesson became a private one? I’m seriously starting to rethink that now. It’s try a wave, paddle back, try a wave, paddle back, endlessly for two hours.

My arms feel like jello. The ocean is a treadmill, and I am a fool.

Jonathan leaves his post and swims out to me. A big wave is coming, and I’m paddling futilely into it. He reaches me.

“Get off your board!”

I slide off, grateful, honestly. But there’s no moment for gratitude because he shouts, “Dive!”

I turn to him and manage, “Wha–” before I’m smacked in the face with the wave.

He emerges on the other side and shakes out the hair he doesn’t have. My face has wave burn. I choke out, “I didn’t dive…”

Jonathan thinks this is hysterical. I laugh with him because he’s right.

9:45am

“Okay, Ariana, this is the one,” Jonathan says as he sends me on the wave.

“Paddle…paddle…up! Up!”

I’m up. Nearly seamless. I’m riding this wave. I’m riding this freaking wave! This is the one. I adjust my arms, focus my line of sight. I feel the swell and pull of the wave on my board. I go with it. The ease of the ride after the strain of paddling is almost euphoric. This is it. I’m freaking surfing! I ride the wave standing tall, Jonathan and Adam whooping behind me, until I step off easily into the sand. I pump my fists in the air like I’m in a teen movie and we just won the big game. I can’t stop grinning. It was my best ride of the day, lucky number three.

A touristy couple with fancy cameras had been taking my picture as I rode in the wave. I wanted to ask if they could send it to me but I wasn’t sure how, so instead I grabbed my board and said, “How do we look?”

“Good!” The man called.

“A natural!” his counterpart said.

I smiled at them and turned to wade back into the water. Then I threw up.

Well, not exactly. Nothing came out. Likely because I’d only eaten an apple and some peanut butter before the lesson. So I mostly wretched a few times, doubling over like a cat dislodging a hairball. I assume that’s when the touristy couple walked away. Then the wretching stopped. I straightened up, thought huh I must be really exhausted, and started paddling out for my last wave of the day.

10:00am

I didn’t catch the last one. But that was okay. I got my three, and that was enough for me. After two full hours of surfing and paddling and fighting to survive the wrath of the sea, carrying the 9-foot board by my fingertips all the way back to the car was hell. Absolute hell.

We got back to the showers to de-suit and rinse off the sand. Remember when I thought getting the dry wetsuit on was difficult? Imagine my delight at having to get a wet one off.

On a more serious note, the past couple weeks have been harrowing for our Palestinian and Israeli siblings. I know it can be difficult to believe our individual actions make a difference. But I believe they do. With that said, social media is awash with misinformation, so please be vigilant in the content you’re consuming. If you’d like to donate to those in need, this NPR article provides a list of vetted organizations providing humanitarian aid in both Gaza and Israel.

This was fun to write! The Cursed Concussion (spoiler alert) Saga may continue in the next few posts. It’s good to be back. Happy weekend!

ily bye,

Ariana