Loading the used long board into the car, tail hanging out the window for the short drive over the hill to the beach, required the skill of a Jenga master to set it just right so the door would close and it wouldn't catch air and fly out the window.Blasting the radio, windows wide open, sun and warm wind shining and blowing my hair, all I can think of is hitting the waves. Ever since an old boyfriend left me his long board before heading off out of state, my life revolved around getting through whatever I had to do first, loading up the board, and heading to the beach.
No one can parallel park faster than I when the waves are calling. Towel, board, chapstick, and I'm on the sand. Hey! Hi! How're you doing? Little clusters of locals with the same obsession call out to me, and I find a spot in between partially wet suited up blondes to throw down my necessities. I velcro my leash to my ankle and run to the waves. My leash is so long cause my board is so big, and I can't tell you how many times I tripped over that tangled leash when I was first learning to surf. By now I've done it so many times it's like a body appendage and I know exactly where to carry the board for perfect balance to get it to the water without tripping over leash or board.
The goal of it all is to feel the exhilaration of salty spray surround you, the breath-taking power of a swell and wave, the danger of unknown risks living in the water, the oneness of being a part of the ocean's strength. I've never been a big wave or competitive surfer. I watch surfers glide down the front of giant monster waves and I hold my breath at their skill. It is terrifying to me to think of pitting myself against that power and strength. I choose to ride the baby waves all day and revel in the salt and sun, the chapsticks, the wet suits, and the friendships.
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