🌊Wave After Wave
While friends around the world are welcoming their second-borns into the world, I, too, welcomed a new addition: My new (to me) surfboard.
Granted, I bought it on impulse. It looked cute under my arm (priority #1), but it was way too small, way too light. I sized down too fast, and now I had to pay for it—literally and metaphorically.
The balance was off, which meant I had to paddle harder just to make it out to the waves, and even harder to catch one.
Surfing, a hobby that had become my relaxing escape from the grind and doomscrolling over the past year, had quickly become as frustrating as trying to craft an email from scratch when ChatGPT goes down.
I texted the shop I bought it from and told him I wanted to sell it back, an offer he’d promised before purchasing it. I didn’t even care if I lost money—fun was the real objective.
He responded, saying he was placing a hold on buying boards for a few months. Then he added something that really pissed me off:
"It’s not the arrow, it’s the Indian. Keep practicing on that board, and you're going to love it."
I’m not a big fan of being patronized—especially by old men who use outdated slurs and price-gouge people on used boards.
But I was used to it.
Being a female surfer - I was learning - comes with its own challenges, like men giving you unsolicited advice about what you should and shouldn’t do. One random guy even pushed me into a wave without warning once. Turns out mansplaining happens offshore, too.
Nevertheless, I persisted. I didn’t have a choice, did I?
I told myself that even if I wasn’t catching anything, at least I was getting stronger.
I tried to turn my attention to the turquoise water cooling my warm body, the colorful sunset lighting up the sky above, and the gentle lull of the waves between sets.
But the truth is, I wanted a ride.
And I was getting jealous, watching beginners around me catch wave after wave.
So I went hunting for a new board on Facebook Marketplace. I found a used board, wider, with more volume, easier to paddle, and in my budget.
I asked the seller if I could take it for a spin. He agreed.
In the year and a half I’d been surfing, I hadn’t had a single accident. I’d seen plenty—reef scrapes, fin slashes, stitched-up limbs—but I’d managed to stay unscathed.
Until that day.
The borrowed board felt heavy, awkward. But I caught a wave on my first try, and I was stoked. Went for a second round—missed the pop-up, so I figured I’d just ride it into shore on my belly.
Except the wave had other plans.
It veered me toward the reef, and I didn’t bail in time. That’s when I heard a loud scrape on the underside of the board.
Trapped in shallow water, slippery rocks beneath me, tide moving in and out, the board all banged up—I felt stupid.
I forgot it was low tide, making the reef even more exposed.
I climbed out, deflated. Not only was I bruised and bleeding, but now I had to pay to fix a heavy sea slug I didn’t even want.
As you can imagine, the owner wasn’t thrilled that I didn’t want to buy it, and that it was now damaged. I sent him money on PayPal and went back out to the water, more determined than ever.
Surfing Has Taught Me So Much
For anyone who struggles with overthinking, I highly recommend taking up a hobby, like surfing.
Not only has it helped me appreciate my body in ways I never have before—probably because I'm disconnected from my phone and fully in my body when I'm out there—but it’s also become a constant source of new insights.
Bobbing around, waiting for a wave, I’ve realized that making mistakes actually makes me better.
And that I can get better at anything, as long as I just keep practicing.
Practice hasn’t exactly made me perfect, but it has made me more capable.
After my accident, I vowed to take my board out every day—and took “landing a wave” off the table.
Instead, I shifted my focus to gaining strength and balance, learning from other people’s wins and mistakes, and simply cooling off in the water.
I also booked a lesson with a surf instructor. After a few quick tips, and some pop-up practice on the sand, something miraculous happened:
I started catching wave after wave (like the song).
I wish I could tell you how much I feel like a sea goddess when I do finally pop up, long and lean, sun-kissed and graceful as I glide through the water.
Instead, every ride still catches me off guard, my brain too stunned to process. WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING?
But maybe that's exactly what I need.
Not mastery.
Not competition.
Not a comparison.
Just the wild, unexpected thrill of realizing:
I'm alive and I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The truth is, I've never felt more aligned than when I’m out there in the water—even when I'm getting thrashed about by the whitewater washing machine, wiping out, or inhaling a mouthful of salty sea water.