Surfing—a seductive, emotional, dangerous affair.
I only say that because I’ve had a long, turbulent love story with the waves. Recently we were torn apart, and for a long time I was hurt and angry, but then that faded to mild bitterness.
But I’ve been home in Hawaii for almost 2 months now, and the waves are still out there, pushing people onto their boards and into barrels. I’ve been physically and emotionally resisting, because I know at some point I might have to leave again, this time for much longer than a year.
Yesterday I got out to the beach, and strapped a foam longboard to my ankle and caught some waves. The winds were onshore and the waves weren’t great, and I was reluctant enough to make it feel like I was just going through the motions. The problem is, you can’t go through the motions while your’e surfing. It’s something you have to feel from the inside so you can handle the challenge of what’s going outside.
After feeling the warm dull burn of paddling for about an hour, I got out of the water and played with my kids. That felt great. I pushed them through the small shorebreak waves…they squealed with delight—my baby girl watching with full body intent the pulsing sway of water…and dammit to hell if I didn’t start to feel that passion again.
Then to top it all off I went out with my son—who’s definitely bitten with the surfing bug—and caught wave after wave after wave. We had the whole section of the beach to ourselves. It was a peaking left that rolled in like a machine, one after the other.
It was time to go in. The water was very warm and I wasn’t ready to leave. A right came my way and I caught it, perfectly—grabbing rail.
Surfing does something to your soul. It purifies you. But I’m not quite ready to embrace that once again.