In no other sport can one progress so slowly and regress so quickly. Photo: Austin Neill
“Don’t get so frustrated,” was a phrase I heard often growing up. Building a Lego castle, I’d become baffled by the endless instructions, bang my flat-topped head— hey, it was a style, man — against the proverbial wall, and then suddenly smash the entire castle, catapulting a sea of plastic bricks to the floor.
Years later, playing hoops with my neighbor, who’d suddenly grown taller and better than me, I’d seize the ball immediately after he swished the last bucket and uncontrollably drop-kick it into the sky. I was seeing red: who cared if we lost the ball in the woods?
A few more years down the road, let’s just say it wasn’t uncommon for me to pick up a yellow card on the soccer field.
Frustration was my kryptonite, and when I fell prey to it, things ran amuck, and I usually ended up in trouble. To this day, I can still hear my mom’s voice: “calm down, take a deep breath.” Of course, all that did was drop a match in the gasoline river running through my young veins.
Which leads me to surfing. There are very few sports that are so dependent on slim margins for error, pinpoint timing, and various environmental factors beyond our control. Sure, soccer on a rainy field with a hostile crowd is a challenge; but the ocean is in a perpetual state of fluctuation. As are the surfers around you. As is the weather, the tides, and your sudden lack of motor skills when faced with a gaping wave at its zenith.
When they withstand the pressure, the surfer’s reward is clear. “Succeeding” at riding a wave well is to accomplish something that is both ephemeral and boundless, an indescribable moment that remains firmly etched in our minds.
Often, however, even the dreamiest sessions include elements of frustration. On my text chain with my surf pack – similar to a wolf pack, but for surfers – there’s some banter about a sick wave one guy had or the fun conditions headed someone else’s way. But most of these messages sent by veteran surfers reference matters maddening: getting cut off by a SUP at the peak, taking a Wavestorm to the head, wiping out on what should have been the wave of the day, climbing into a sandy, forgotten wetsuit, getting the car towed while surfing on a frigid New England day and hitchhiking to the tow shop in a 5/4 and booties…OK, that last one was me.
I’m not sure that there is another sport where the learning curve is so rutted and steep, and where inexplicable regression is a mainstay. I’ve been surfing for years, yet at any moment, I can somehow excitedly slip down the beach steps and ding my board, miss the timing of a duck dive and get flattened, miss a wave that should’ve had my name on it, or trip while changing on the side of the road and give everyone a show they absolutely didn’t ask for.
Surfing has the mystical power to rob us of our dignity, disappoint us and make us feel silly and out-of-shape. With the pounding of a rogue wave, surfing breaks us until all that’s left is the husk of a frayed wetsuit, a waxy fragment of pride ground further down by a Cam Rewind. Wait…is that how I really surf?
And then something like this happens. Photo: Tim Torchia
Surfing is also a deceptive trickster, a slippery eel. My best sessions are often followed by my worst. I paddle out frothing with foamy overconfidence and the ocean decides to teach me a lesson. As I tumble over the falls, my smile becoming a sieve for seaweed. Then, I spend some quality time stuck inside for a while, ducking and diving, regretting the burrito that’s lodged somewhere in my belly like a football.
Irritation is at least a fraction of our daily adult lives (Life advice for groms – refuse to grow up) but sometimes it feels like annoyance is a larger slice of surfing. Case in point:
My fiancée: “How was it?”
Me: “Eh, I got a few fun waves, but…”
Henceforth, I launch into a typical description of the more problematic elements of the session as the patient woman covertly pulls her headphones back on.
Even when surfers have a progressive session, the ocean never lets us get the upper hand. Recently, after a morning of quality waves, I rode the whitewash in on my belly, satiated, savoring the ride until I whacked into the reef and tumbled, thrashing in two feet of water while beachgoers gathered around. “I think that seal is injured,” someone volunteered. “Is anyone here a marine biologist?”
Despite the setbacks, true surfers always return to their dark master. Just the other day I journeyed down to the sea along with every other person in Southern California, trying to fit a session in between rainstorms. There was nowhere to park, and the uber-high tide meant a long walk with the waves playfully slamming rocks against my ankles. Once I got out the back, the wind was whipping in the worst possible direction, making it necessary to continually paddle against the current. The looks on peoples’ faces that Sunday morning registered: “why’d I leave my warm house and Blue Crush for this slice of Pacific futility?”
Surfing’s bitter pills make the wins taste sweeter, however. That Sunday morning, I took a quick rest, and sure enough, the current took control. As my distracted mind raced through a labyrinth of real-world worries, I figured I’d just let myself get pulled towards the parking lot.
Then, out of nowhere, a clean, five-foot wave appeared amid the chop. I jumped on, rode it all the way in, and left the beach with a smile on my face just as the sky opened up.
Moments like that are the reason we carve time out of our schedules to pile on neoprene. I’m often amazed by how excited I am to go surfing, sometimes merely hours after a disappointing session. There is so much beauty and optimism in simply spending time in the ocean that it supersedes the aggravation we sometimes feel.
When I’m struggling, when I’m about to break the stupid Lego castle to bits and boot the basketball to Pluto, I have a mantra: “every bad session can become a good session.” It’s simple, ridiculous, not at all catchy. Somehow, though, it works to keep my eyes on the next set instead of the scuffed Celtics basketball rocketing into the trees.
If you also find yourself occasionally trapped in surfing’s grab-bag of aggravation, just remember that every wave offers a new challenge, a new chance at an adrenaline-spiked drop or a deep bottom turn, a floater or a barrel. A friend says that all you need to make a session worthwhile is “one good wave.” One ride has the power to transform your attitude, your brain, your feelings. Your day. Your life.
And if it doesn’t, just toss your board into the dumpster and admit you stink.
That feels pretty good, too.
