“Salt, sand, and sea minerals are as much a part of my chemical make-up as carbon, oxygen, and water. It’s only natural that the ocean is the motif of my dreams.” Photo: Angelica Clemmer
As if a switch was turned on, I was changed forever. In the blink of an eye, I had my inspiration, and I held on for dear life.
I had never been to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, but I couldn’t have imagined a more quaint, inviting beach town. Far from the adolescent chaos of Ocean City, Rehoboth was the romantic getaway we needed.
We literally stumbled around a corner downtown, just off the main street, and discovered a tiny shop that brimmed over with color and charm. Quaint doesn’t cut it. This place was super chic, rich with personality, and radiated warmth and positive vibes. The owners, Eric, and Angelica, or “Gel,” were hanging out with their scruffy waterman’s dog, Alonzo. The shop was cozy, but stuffed with beautiful original surf-themed artwork by Gel, and obligatory surf shop merchandise.We were out on the waves by early morning the next day.
“You get used to it,” said Eric, our surfing instructor.
All of my dreaming, months of obsessing, research, reading, and hours spent watching surf themed documentaries had built up to this single moment. I was determined to find adventure and healing in these waters, and I savored every second. While still on the beach, we figured out our footing, and learned to wax the board, paddle in, and pop up. Then it was finally time to get in; I don’t know if anyone has ever been so excited about swimming in freezing cold water. There was only one option: to run. I sprinted into the foam, and felt its icy sting with every slap of my feet. When it became too deep to run, I hopped on the board and paddled rather automatically. Maybe dreaming about this movement had instructed my muscle memory. In any case, it felt second-nature, as if I was born to do this.
Twenty minutes later, and we had begun to practice paddling into baby waves. Eric had been helping by pushing me into them, but eventually when he and my boyfriend were about twenty yards away, as I drifted and paddled to position myself in the best spot. Instinct took over, and everything else dropped away. As a kid, I had damn near drowned about five or six times, it happens. Then there’s always the pack of bullies that waterboards you in the public pool. But fear takes over, both of the unknown and the known, when you step into the ocean. What’s underneath that murky Atlantic water? Jellyfish? Sharks? Will the riptide pull me miles from shore, as I’m powerless to stop it? The questions pile into frantic jumbles.
Out here in the rather soft surf, floating on my foam board, the questions hushed to whispers and fell to the back of my head. This was no time for fear or second thoughts. This was my paid hour of instruction, and the day I had dreamed of for ages. I’d be damned if I was going to do anything but charge into the ocean and paddle into waves with courage and reckless abandon. This was my chance to make my dreams a reality. From in my head and my heart to in my hands.
We surfed all day, and hours later made our way to the legitimate local hotspots. The day started at Gordon’s Pond and the Naval Jetties. After lunch, we went off on our own to Cape Henlopen, where rumor had it the best surfing in town could be found at Herring Point. Now, I call it the Graveyard, because during low tide, cedar tree stumps can be seen, remnants of an ancient forest.
Sometime in the high afternoon, I worked up the beans to enter the lineup. I had been watching from shore with my boyfriend and our dogs. I paddled out, and was pleasantly relieved to feel at ease. I noticed that I was the only woman there, and was also bravely placing myself with the local pack at the tip of a rocky jetty, far from the cluster of the rest of the locals. But before I could second-guess my judgment, a set rolled in.
I skipped the first couple, and watched the guys paddle in. I had to be faster, much faster. I was already tired from the hours of being out on the water, and the long paddle to get to the lineup. I saw my chance and made my call, working hard to turn the board around. The waves didn’t seem that big, but this was coming in with more and more speed, thundering towards me without forgiveness.
With no idea how to time it, I again fell into an intuitive flow of motions. I just paddled like there was no tomorrow, and kicked my heels until I couldn’t feel my legs. Right before my muscles locked up, I felt the wave come under me, and the locomotive pull caught me just before it broke. This is it, I thought, and gave it my last ounce of energy.
