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

Night Rides, Owl Screeches and Buttered Rum

Last night Steph, Maddie and I met up at one of our favorite spots for a night time mountain bike ride. It was cold, and dark, and the stars were shining brightly in the clear sky.

As we suited up, throwing on our backpacks, adjusting our lights, we heard a wild animal cry in the night.

“Woooahhh,” I said.

“That’s an owl!” Steph said.

It was a harsh piercing of the night, that noise, and it gave me both goosebumps and a thrill.

“Right on,” we said and we got going.

The ground was hard, thankfully, frozen and easy to ride.

The trails in the dark feel narrow, the turns quick. With my new headlamp Nick gave me I could see so much more than the last time I’d gone out, which I was thankful for.

There’s something so peaceful about night riding, and so special. It’s like you have a secret with the world, while everyone else is warm and inside.

At a stop, as Maddie adjusted her bike, Steph withdrew a small flask resembling a rocket ship from her bag. “I figured we could toast to our new female Vice President,” she said, which was met with enthusiasm and cheers. She promised all the shot glasses were sterilized and we passed the flask around, filled up our mini shot glasses and had our toast. To a new year, to new beginnings, to things already feeling more ok again under the new leadership.

In the night, on the airstrip, the large planes were hallowed and still. We rode over roots and rocks, dodged malicious gnarls in the ground and after 4 or so miles, came out to the street and head back to our cars, legs and hearts warmed.

On Writing and Rejection and Opening Your Own Window

Somehow, through some beautiful divine alchemy, my feelings about rejection have started to change, particularly when it comes to writing.

Since becoming a sturdier human being over the last couple years—that, coupled with a few randomly placed quotes about rejection I’ve stumbled across—it’s come to mean something other than what it used to mean.

Rejection is what led me to the path I’m on of independent publishing and blogging—of doing my own thang. After getting nowhere submitting essays and stories to mags for a few years (with the caveat that I am far less patient and punctilious about following up than others are), rather than keeping my writing out of rotation with the world, I just decided to put it out there using my own outlets.

That repeated rejection—which frankly sucked at the time--led me to autonomy and freedom: the freedom to own my own writing schedule, write about what I want to write about, to have typos, to mess up.

Rejection used to feel so 1) personal and 2) world-ending. It used to feel like I was losing something, I was missing out. But now, I take it to mean that I’m just that much closer to finding my true tribe, the people my writing truly connects with (like you :-)). I remind myself that this is a big, beautiful world, and there are treasures all around. In other words, rather than being in the mindset of scarcity when it comes to rejection, I’m in the mindset of abundance.

I’m realizing that judging rejection—that taking it as “bad”—is a waste of energy. It’s also so often not true. That “no” was the thing that brought you closer to other “yes’s” that were meant for you. Maybe the no’s are giving you the gusto, freeing you up to shout “What have I got to lose?!” and flinging yourself at the next opportunity, a little wild eyed, tal vez un poco loco, but freer, less sensitive.

And one last thing—I used to take rejection as so finite. Like it was “No forever, for all eternities and beyond! NO and NO and NO and NO!” Now I take it as: Not right now. I take it as an invitation to check in down the road, see if the stars might be more aligned then.

It still stings. But I’m feeling more resilient, moving on faster, not feeling it in such a deep wounding place. I’m staying light, staying high and knowing my only job is to keep showing up with my writing. That it finds its way to the right hearts. It’s not my job to understand why it all unfolds the way it does. It’s just my assignment to do what I’m fashioned to do, day in and day out, and trust. That—and if the world is shutting doors in my face, open my own window.

Resources:

BOOK: Sheri Salata, The Beautiful No: And Other Tales of Trial, Transcendence, and Transformation

PODCAST EPISODE: Don’t Keep Your Day Job (Hosted by Cathy Heller): Sheri Salata on Transformation & Turning a Beautiful No into a 20 Year Career with Oprah Winfrey