Surf: Lunchtime sesh

I jumped in for a super quick lunch time surf sesh. It’d been more than two weeks since I’d jumped in. Having 1) finished the last of my antibiotics for my ear infection yesterday 2) considered I was feeling better and most importantly, 3) it was in the 40s, low wind and 3-4 feet, it was game on. I’d been feeling buzzy and itchy and as usual, heading to “Church” (la playa) was the solution.

Only a couple people out and I ran from my car, wanting to maximize every second given I only had an hour for lunch with work.

I was just north of R’s and the waves were just fine. Mostly 1-2 feet but with a couple 3-4 coming through. It was my perfect type of day—small, clean, and quiet.

There’s no peace like the ocean, nothing like it to put my buzzy mind at ease and give me quiet.

I’d rather surf than not surf at all, so I walked away feeling like even if I only have 40 minutes or so in the water, it’s worth it and that I should try to take advantage of the quick lunch surfs more often. We’re getting more daylight but so so slowly and so, on mornings where I’m just not having it—not having that early morning frigid wake up call—I’m going to shoot up for a quick lunch time sesh and be glad for it. Better than nothing. Better than anything really.

Surfing Dawn Patrol Makes You a Crazy Joyful Ninja

Joy makes you a ninja.

Joy lights you up so darkness bounces off you like a tennis ball the rest of the day.

On winter mornings where I drag my ass out of bed, the blue of nautical twilight in the sky, wriggle into 6mm of rubber and make my way north to the beach, I am, essentially, driving to a session of Joy.

I park and I’m moving as fast as I can without forgetting things (I inevitably leave my wax on the back windshield wiper where I’ve stored it so I don’t have to reopen the car and then I arrive home after my seshie shocked and grateful that it’s still there). I’m moving so fast that I always wonder, Where did I stow my key? as I’m running towards the water. There’s no turning back to check, it’s too cold, I’ve got to work in an hour, and there are waves.

I’m running. Running so fast that I will likely trip on my leash and stagger or possibly fall but I don’t care because…there are waves.

And then I’m in the water. When there’s a break, I’m paddling for a spot beyond the break. And then I’m there, bobbing, watching the pink yolk of the sun rise from the horizon. Maybe I’m with Maddie or maybe it’s just me, the rest of the world asleep.

And then, a wave’s coming. It’s rising—is there enough push? Am I in the right spot? Gotta go!—and I’m paddling and it’s got me, and I’m popping up and riding the face or just cruising if it’s a wicked small day. Then I’m off, and inside, it’s church bells and holyrollin’ choirs, fireworks and confetti. It’s joy joy joy. It’s the doing of the thing I’m fashioned to do, the practice and the act. The ritual and the time that has brought me to this point. It’s the simple act of harnessing energy and being with nature, riding what she has given us, being one with that wave.

This feeling—this lit up, boogie woogie feeling—is with me all day. It’s got my shoulders higher. It’s got my voice all chirping like. It’s got me smiling and dancing and thinking, Whatevs! When life doesn’t go my way or when my coworker asks me an annoying question. It’s a suit of armor for whatever nonsense might come up.

It is JOY that comes from PLAY and the thing I love to do.

Maddie and I often find ourselves shouting, “IT’S JUST SO FUN!” when we’re out on the water.

Epiphany: FUN and joy: Not just for kids.

Fun and JOY is for you and for me!

The Glamour of Surfing

The beach, the waves, the wax, the boards—it’s all glorious and sexy—but last year, the glamour of surfing really hit me on one particularly big day in York.

No one was surfing just north of the restaurant and I couldn’t figure out why. The waves looked fabulous and long, and areas north of there were starting to get crowded with fellow surfers, so I paddled south from where I was and popped up on a bomb of a right.

I rode it far in and my error of judgement became apparent quickly: as the wave ended, I was stuck in a swampy seaweed salad. The seaweed had taken over the beach that summer—the marine plants stank in the sun, leaving the tourists with nauseous delirium.

And here it was, clumped on my leash, in my hair, and clawing at me from all around, squishy like some life-sized tactile Halloween exhibit.

Somehow—and not gracefully—I was able to paddle back out, after unclumping the seaweed from around my neck and leash, feeling faint and somewhat claustrophobic. When I got beyond the break, I went about unclumping the last of the tangled mess of seaweed that had tied bowknots on the leash.

The next waves I rode, I ducked off early, managing to avoid the sloppy mess. When I finally rode one in, upon landing on the beach, I saw amidst the debris, a baby seal, dead, and some sort of fatty tissue from her body nearby.

It was a pickling moment, and I still grimace even now, remembering I’d just been swimming in the foul mess.

When I hopped in my car, I took one look at my hair and for the first time ever felt that Sinead O’Connor had been on to something. Every lock of hair was throttled by the red seaweed

How the hell am I going to get this out, I wondered.

The answer was: Patiently, with a wide tooth comb and lots of deep conditioner. Three hours later, I began to recognize myself in the mirror. I feared for the state of the pipes.

My car has never fully recovered from shuttling me home that day. There is still an eau de mer that won’t be quelled with the strongest essential oil blend, coffee grounds and baking soda. And occasionally, when I swing my hair too fast, I catch a whiff of ancient crustaceans, kelp and the ghost lives of baby seals and I am reminded once more of the glamour of surfing.

Facial expression: Concern, general malaise and a confidence that I’d be bowing out of any plans that afternoon, in order to work with this hair. (C) Sara Dyer