Once upon a time, I had this pie-in-the-sky dream that after I finished high school, I would take a year off to surf in Hawaii before I went to college. My parents nixed the idea immediately of course. A year off would surely lay fertile ground for avoiding college altogether and crush their hopes of me becoming a lawyer or doctor — neither of which I’d expressed the slightest desire of ever, EVER, pursuing. So when I ended up attending school at Indiana U, smack in the middle of a hayfield in the Midwest, the idea of surfing pretty much evaporated from my existence — except for an extended layover in Hawaii, where I used my one day to hit the waves. Then The Dream burrowed itself away for a very long hibernation.
When I moved to coastal waters along the East Coast, I still had nary a thought about what seemed to me a very distinctly West Coast endeavor. But that dormant little seed finally took root and three years ago, a little internet searching led me to find surfing lessons that were held in the city. I started swimming regularly with the intent of taking a lesson that spring. Life got in the way again, but then this year, free from a 9-to-5 and with the ocean beckoning, I finally booked that first lesson.
It happened today. The basics of how to lie on a board: perfectly centered, toes touching the tail. How to paddle: back arched, one arm at a time. How to pop up: feet wide apart facing the rail, but perched along the center stringer, head turned forward. And most importantly, I learned to get past that initial hesitation and just get to the beach. The rest will take care of itself.
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