Don’t Learn This the Hard Way - Surfing Is Not Easy

I decide this is the year I learn to surf.

I call the surf school to make an appointment and request 1 pm.

We can do 4:30 pm, or early in the morning, the instructor tells me.

Not 1 pm?

That’s high tide, he says. Low tide is early in the morning, or 4:30 in the afternoon.

Right, this is the ocean, I think. It doesn’t take appointments …

I say OK to 4:30 and prepare to surf.

I’m fine up until the day of my lesson, and then I start to get nervous.

I could die, I think. Or be badly maimed. But 6-year-olds do this …I tell myself to get over it.

I meet the instructor who’s exactly as I pictured someone who teaches surfing for a living. He’s young, laid back and easy to get along with.

He starts the lesson with a quick lecture on waves.

Do you know what makes waves, he asks me.

This is something I’ve never wondered before, and never thought to investigate.

Before I blurt out something stupid, I think about what could reasonably make waves and say, weather.

The instructor’s face lights up. Apparently, this is a question many people get wrong.

Yes, weather, he says. But what specific type of weather, he asks.

Not off the hook yet ...

Wind, I say.

More lighting up. Yes, he tells me. It’s the wind.

We’re having the lecture sitting on the beach, our wet suits on up to our waists, and I’m hoping this talking part will fill up the full hour.

But, the instructor eventually says now it’s time for some practical information, and then we can get in the water.

This is my first lesson, I remind him. Is it wise to actually go in the water today?

He doesn’t seem to register what I mean and says, yes, today.

He gives me the practical information:

Always keep the board by your side, never in front of you. If it’s in front of you and a wave catches it, it will smash the board into your face.

Got it – keep the board to my side.

Now he shows me how to lie on the board, paddle and hop up on to the board.

I do this on the sand a few times and wonder how I’m going to manage this in the water.

But, other people do it all the time. It shouldn’t be a problem I tell myself, and the instructor seems pleased with my performance.

Now, the instructor says, it’s time to go in the water.

Really, I say. Now?

Yes …now.

We head into the water …so far so good.

We walk in and the waves start hitting us. I’m shocked by the cold, even through the wet suit.

The instructor is a few feet in front of me when he tells me to hop on my board and start paddling.

Really, I ask. But the waves are coming.

Really, he says. Hop on.

I have my board at my side and look at it wondering how I’m going to hoist myself onto it more than waist-high in the water. The instructor seems to think this is not a difficult task, so I hop on to the board.

I don’t have a moment to register fear, anxiety, anything, before a wave comes and knocks me off the board.

I go under and quickly get back up, making sure the board is at my side.

Another wave hits and I go under again, find the ground with my feet and come up.

The ocean is not in a joking mood and doesn’t seem to care I need a minute to think and catch my breath.

As soon as I’m up I take a breath and open my salty eyes.

I see the underbelly of the board with white foam swelling underneath it.

In front of me.

I register this is the situation I was supposed to avoid and that’s all I have time to do – register it. The wave picks up my board and slams it into my face.

I go under, come up, turn toward land, start walking toward safety and catching my breath.

There are surfers just a few yards away, sitting on their boards in the water waiting for waves. How could this be life and death for me and a harmless fun time for them, I think.

The instructor is now by my side, looking at my face and asking if I’m OK.

I tell him yes.

He looks at me kind of funny and says, you’re bleeding.

My nose, I ask.

Yes.

I put my hands up to my nose and they’re quickly covered in blood.

Not a little. A lot.

And it won’t stop.

We walk out of the water and the instructor goes to get some tissues. I have plenty of time to imagine the worst.

I’ve broken my nose. I’ll need surgery. I’ll never look the same again. I’ll have to tell the people at work what I did …

He comes back and I lift the tissues to my face. They’re instantly soaked in blood.

The instructor loses his unworried expression and asks again if I’m OK.

I need more tissues, I tell him. This time I go to the bathroom myself.

I lean my face into the sink and let the blood pour out of my nose.

This bathroom has no mirror, so I have no way of telling the damage I’d done.

Finally the bleeding slows down. I go back to the beach.

Ready to go back in, the instructor asks me.

No way in hell I’m going back in, I share.

I shouldn’t let this deter me, he says. I should get right back in.

My face hurts and all I want to do is assess the self-inflicted damage, so I tell him no, I’m not going back in.

I get in my car and look in the mirror. I can’t tell if anything is swollen.

I set off for my parents' house so they can help me figure out what to do.

You never do stop being your parents’ child.

I get to the bridge in Belmar and it’s up. I’m stuck, with a painful face, mad at myself for being a dummy, and having to wait for the bridge to go down.

Should I have a meltdown, I think.

No, stop being a baby, I tell myself.

But why do we do that? I was in my own car. By myself. So what if I had a meltdown?

But I don’t melt down. I hold on. The bridge finally goes down.

I rush over to my dad’s and tell him to look at my face.

He looks at my face.

I ask him if there’s anything different about it.

He studies my face closely, but seems to focus mainly on my forehead.

Anything different?
You got some color?

That’s it, I ask.

Yes, you look the same as always.

I do?

Yes, the same. What’s different?

I tell him I had a surf lesson and the board smashed into my face.

I was prepared to assure him not to worry, I’d never do something so dangerous again.

But he finds it funny that I attempted surfing and asks when I’m going back.

What do you mean, go back? Of course I’m not going back, I said. The board hit me in the face …

He doesn’t seem to register the trauma I’m experiencing. And how could he not fear for my life? His youngest daughter, his baby, out there in the cold, heartless sea?

He’s delighted I went surfing, and encourages me to do it again.

No, I’m not going back. And whatever I did, it could not rightly be called surfing.

Are you sure there’s no difference, I ask.

Yes, you’re the same. Same face.

Not swollen?

No, he screams.

Don’t get mad at me, I say. I’m upset.

He softens. No, you’re the same.

Whatevs, dad.

I try to calm down. But my face feels swollen, even if it isn’t, and I’m mad at myself.

The next day my face is the same and the pain starts to rescind.

I think about the ocean and getting back in the water.

Why should I, I think. It’s a dangerous situation waiting to happen.

I think of the teenage girl who lost her arm to a shark while surfing and is still surfing …

Still, this doesn’t make me feel like going back in.

Well, maybe some day, eventually. When I’m no longer traumatized.

For now, it’s hiking in the woods for me …and of course, my beloved yoga …