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When I moved to Costa Rica, I decided that it was time for me to confront my fear of the ocean. I’d had a panic attack a year earlier while scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef, six-meters under the surface and feeling the immense power of the water surrounding me. At the time I was overwhelmed. That experience stuck with me.
When the opportunity arose to teach yoga at a surf lodge on the Osa Peninsula, I thought this was the perfect opportunity to reconnect with the water. Being the stubborn, do-it-yourself kind of person that I am, I decided that I didn’t need a lesson to learn how to surf, though. So on the third day of my self-directed surf camp, I decided to go out alone at dawn. It was still dark in the dense jungle when I awoke. I grabbed my board and began walking through the thick trees in the dark, watching each step for fer-de-lances, poison dart frogs, tarantulas, and crabs. The jungle in Osa is dense with verdant trees, vines, and the sound of cicadas surrounding you right up onto the rocky shore of the Pacific.
When I reached my designated prep-point I placed the board down and tied the leash to my ankle. I took a few deep breaths while watching the idyllic dawn in front of me. And at that moment, looking at the first rays of light glistening on the water, I knew I was in for something special.
I stood and read the waves, trying to see their pattern. The tide was low, exposing the sharp, uneven rocks that needed to be traversed in order to get into the water. It took attention and patience, strength and fluidity, determination and fearlessness just to get into the water. I did not let it deter me though, and I slowly shifted my weight from rock to rock, avoiding as many cuts and bruises as possible. Finally, I got into the water, jumped on my board, and began paddling out into the waves. They were stronger that day than I had experienced before. A wave crashed a bit in front of me, and I recalled the words of my friend, “When the whitewash comes at you try to turtle.” I latched onto the board with my arms and legs in a hugging position, took a breath in and flipped over. The wave washed over me and I flipped back onto my board, paddling harder to get out the back. I thought for a moment that maybe I should have taken a lesson after all before boldly solo-surfing.
But that would have been too easy.
Though I knew a swell was building, I hadn’t expected to be met with head-high waves. As I sat out on the water, my feet dangling in the ocean that felt as warm as bath water, I knew there was no way I would be able to catch one of those behemoths. So, feeling a bit defeated, I resigned to riding the whitewash of a wave into the bay and place myself where smaller waves were breaking inside.
When a wave did approach, I let the foamy whitewash propel me forward, gripped the board with my hands at first, as though trying to pull the board backward away from the forward thrust of the water in order to maintain control. I stayed with the board and used it to boogie closer towards the shore. I began to feel the intensity of the wave decrease slightly and for a moment I was relieved. I hadn’t succumbed to the power of the water, I hadn’t panicked, I had maintained control when the ocean was fighting against me.
Of course, the ocean sent another test at me immediately following that sense of calm and relief. I looked over my right shoulder and lo and behold, I was in the perfect position to catch the next wave. I paddled forward a few strokes and without thinking I popped up onto my feet. With a yelp of excitement, I let the surge of the ocean push me forward. I glided across the surface of the water standing upright on a surfboard for the first time; knees bent, hips low, arms extended. It was exhilarating. I wasn’t fighting against the force of the ocean. Instead, I was letting that force support me as I moved forward. I don’t remember exactly how long I rode the wave. It was long enough for me to almost lose my balance twice but short enough to leave me craving another ride. I was cheering for myself, yelling in elation as I glided across the surface of the water.
I was beaming, smiling and laughing. I had never really understood the thrill of surfing before or why people loved it so much. After that first wave though, I felt a new connection to everybody who has ever, and will ever, surf. The simultaneous complete peace and adrenaline filled me with wonder, completely and entirely present in the moment without fear. As I looked around at the horizon, the palm trees on the coastline and the glistening bay with beautiful ripples of waves coming in, I had forgotten about the possibility of danger.
Then I glanced down at the water in front of me. One meter from the nose of my board there was a dorsal fin gliding across the water. It was angular; a greyish blueish triangle that my eyes and intuition instantly recognized. I could practically hear the Jaws theme playing as I scrambled to lift my feet out of the water, almost falling in on one side. I sat on the board in a perfect forward fold, ensuring that none of my limbs were directly exposed to the water. I was once again thrust into the in-the-moment-adrenaline rush, though this time, out of fear of being attacked by a shark.
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After a minute or so of frantically checking the water to make sure the shark wasn’t circling, I let my feet back into the water. I looked at the shore, contemplating paddling in and ending my surf session. It would have been a reasonable response to what had just happened. Instead, I looked back out at the beautiful sets forming in front of me and paddled back out.
Later in the day, my dramatic recounting of that encounter was enthusiastically received. I told the story to a dozen new friends who had been surfing for 30 years and had never seen a shark in the water. They told me I was lucky, that it was a sign, and that I was badass for going back out into the water after seeing one. Only after speaking with other people did it really hit me. I could have turned back. I could have seen the shark as an omen of bad tidings and given up in my quest to learn how to surf. I didn’t.
I am a believer in recognizing signs from the universe, in serendipity, and the impossibility of coincidence. There had to be a reason that I saw this animal immediately after successfully catching my first wave. Sharks are generally revered for their fierceness. They pursue their prey, their goals. They are fearless, the hunters of the ocean, powerful and driven. The more I thought about perceptions of sharks, the more I began to realize that I was describing myself. I was fiercely fighting my fears, progressing towards a goal that I had for myself. I was moving forward, I was powerful and I was driven. I had stood up on the board, caught a wave all the way to the reef, and the universe let the shark swim past me as a symbol of my own potential.
Seeing a shark that day was an affirmation. I could have seen it as a legitimization of my fear of the ocean. Instead, it validated my progress in confronting my fears. In life, we are constantly presented with signs — symbols from the universe that may seem innocuous but actually aren’t. We have the power to interpret them, and how we choose to see the things presented to us shapes our lives. Do we see the signs and swim back to shore? Or do we see the signs and head back out into the water? Learning to surf has taught me that we can be dominated by our fears, or we can choose to be fierce in the face of them. We can let ourselves be conquered by the ocean, or we can use its force to move us forward.
