Re: belly & swell: Making the Call to Stop Surfing for Now

[written November 7, at 26 months pregnant]

Yesterday I made the call—hanging up my wetsuit until after the baby is born.

I’ve been slowly and begrudgingly approaching this day, really resisting it, but it was clear to me that it was time yesterday.

It was a gorgeous day at LS—2-3 feet, clean, relatively long periods, mid tide with an incoming tide right in the mid morning (when does that timing happen on a weekend?)

I rolled up to the beach with an open mind as was the custom I’d adopted over the last few months while surfing, my mantra being: If it’s doesn’t feel right, sit tight.

Three weeks had passed since I’d last been out and my belly had really popped. This time, I made sure to wear wet sox under my booties for easy on/off (I’d felt like I was going to have an aneurysm trying to get them off without wet sox before—so hard to reach and this growing bowling ball in my way). The wet sox were a game changer and I also just took my time getting the booties on. It was a warm 45 degrees, sun was shining and wind was low so I had the luxury of moving slowly.

There was a mess of seaweed on the beach and in the water, which I guessed had been kicked up by recent rain and storms. I walked through the seaweed as far as I could before hopping on my board. On the board, I did inchworm move—butt up in the air to accommodate the bump. Paddling was a lot harder—it was tough to find my balance and hard to not feeling like I wasn’t smushing El Bumpo. Three weeks out of the water hadn’t done much for my arms either, which felt like noodles quickly. I paddled out and settled in.

Surfing pregnant has definitely made me more selective. I won’t paddle for anything like I normally would and just getting out. there is a feat in and of itself, so I don’t mind waiting for the right wave to roll through. There was a lot of futile paddling on this day—finding the right spot on my board was proving an interesting challenge—but I finally managed to score a nice right. My balance was off but it felt so good to paddle and pop up. It’s the best feeling in the world and one I never take for granted.

While I caught some awesome waves during the session, the day felt different. Surfing is my happy place, but today I was stressed and worried about falling or hitting my board or getting hit by those around me. I’d finally arrived at the point I knew would come where my valid worries outweighed the fun factor. My (temporarily) final wave was perfect. I rode it nearly to shore, a beautiful right that allowed some fun breezy turns.

At 14 weeks to go before bebe comes, I got to surf through my first and second trimesters safely and for that, I’m super grateful. It’s definitely a tough moment for me, to pause until bebe comes, and then to anticipate more time for recovering, but I’m feeling confident in the choice and committed to what feels right to me in terms of fun and safety in my life right now. I’m committed to doing everything I can to both usher this baby in safely, keep myself safe and get back in the water as quickly as possible.

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