Stoke /stōk/:
1. To poke, pierce, or thrust
2. To feed, stir up, especially a fire or furnace
3. To attend to or supply a furnace with fuel
Summer camp was always pretty awesome. A time-limited, concentrated instruction in something fun and interesting — usually creative, often active (except for that one summer of Computer Camp where I learned BASIC on an Apple IIe). You met kids you otherwise wouldn’t have had occasion to meet who, by virtue of being in the same camp, had similar interests. Connections were made quickly and tightly. Some kids you were devastated to leave, others maybe not as much.
Last week, for the first time in over 25 years, I went to summer camp: we spent seven days at Witch’s Rock Surf Camp in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. It was awesome.
Surf. Eat. Watch Ticos kick some World Cup butt. Surf. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
I was in the “beginner” group, along with a dozen or so other folks from around the country and the world. The majority were women and all were professionals: lawyers, veterinarians, nurses, and even a homicide detective. There were utter novices (including me) and veterans who needed some confidence building after a close call. We were split up among three daily sessions with three instructors according to the tide. The waves were fat and (reasonably) gentle. The instructors were lithe and encouraging. The sessions were simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.
Afterwards, over a Tico breakfast of rice and beans (and bacon and eggs and toast and fruit and anything else we could get our hands on), we’d mingle with the “intermediates” – listening to their stories of large waves, and similar sentiments: “Man, getting out just sucked. And then you think you’re almost there and this giant set comes in out of nowhere and you’re like ‘oh shit!’ and you’re paddling like crazy. And then there’s another one and you’re like ‘oh shit!’ But then I caught this awesome wave. I was so stoked!”
Waves scare me. They do. You can’t reason with them. They don’t care that you’re a nice person. When they’re building and growing, they’re doing their unstoppable, massive, awesome thing. And they’re either going to take you for a ride, or push through you as they find another, more able taker. But I started to learn their language – to coordinate my rhythm with theirs. I learned first-hand about the “washing machine.” I managed to get my leash tied in a knot. I was hit by boards (never my own). Most of all, I had some amazing rides. And I couldn’t wait to do it all again.
An unexpectedly great part of all of this was the shared experience with our group of fellow surf campers. We were all there to do the same thing. We cheered whenever anyone got up – whether they fell or not – we watched the video sessions with enthusiasm (and a sense of humor). We shared waves. When we weren’t with our instructors or in our own session, we cheered on the others from shore, or we went out as our own group. We learned that it’s a lot harder to catch waves when you’re not being pushed into them. Or yelled at to “Paddle!” Or told “Stand up! Now!” We all went out for a sunset surf – watching the setting sun cast its smooth metallic glow on the water, disappearing in a lime green dot on the horizon. Then catching that last wave and riding it all the way to shore.
I have a diploma. It says: “By successfully completing this world-renowned surf program you have joined the global surf tribe.” I love “tribe” – the feeling of a community of people with a like-minded spirit and interest who share that desire to be stoked and to stoke the joy of others. I don’t see myself as ever being the surfer who shreds or tears it up on big days (or even small ones, for that matter). But give me that feeling of floating with the swells, taking in the stillness of the morning, watching someone catch a wave, and catching my own — few things compare.
To see more of Nicole’s work, see her gallery titled “Impressionist Surf Photography Puts Your Sessions in Focus” and visit her site at beachradishimages.com or Follow her on Facebook. And learn more about her journey through “Evolution of a Non-Surfing Surf Photographer.”
