At 43 years of age, I have decided to stand on a foam board more regularly. It has been a very slow process. Add a list of ailments including tight hip flexors, hamstrings, calves, shoulders and back, and a general lack of flexibility, compounded by not being a kid of the surf, and you understand my struggle.
The mind is willing, but the body fails to respond with small waves halting their momentum before I can complete a basic pop-up. Never athletic, more determined – pride motivates effort.
The kid’s pop-up, often simply hopping to a standing position, light and nimble on small boards, not the 9-foot version I am offered, providing opportunity for a modicum of success.
Most times, I have not attempted to surf. Pushing the kids into waves my primary role; paddling out through the whitewash to where the locals sit and, the swell so constant, feelings of seasickness occur. Youngsters and seasoned surfers alike chat and look after each other, particularly the beginners who they nurture and offer sets.
Launching surfboards into waves requires expertise, with incorrect timing resulting in a wipe-out or ‘smoked’ as they say, where youngsters only become visible again when they surface closer to the beach. Swimming in with the assistance of waves, you collect, and the process begins again – tow and push.
But this Easter, circumstances changed.
With the weather initially still, the waves gently rolled and were relatively easy for the kids to catch. “You can go in, Dad, I’m fine,” suggested offspring, wishing to hang with his buddies ‘out the back’, no longer requiring my assistance. Not knowing what to think, I followed orders and grabbed a bodyboard – happiness should have eventuated, but it was a consolation prize, no longer needed and benched from involvement.
A few days later, Master found himself in the barrel of a wave for the first time; a right hander which shot the 30kg grommet along at breakneck speed. Feelings of immense pride subdued by shock ascended as we cheered with gusto and he paddled to go again. I asked him what it felt like to be in the barrel, “time just stopped,” gromet responded without hesitation nor prompting.
As a result, maybe it is time to stand-up. Paddling out to catch miniature whitewash guaranteed to be dumped, I must try again. Experiencing the utter depths of frustration is part of the learning process, but it is much harder as we mature. Yet, giving-up would be a poor example and, to be honest, the exhilaration of catching waves excites a perfectionist, rather than generating carefully-considered excuses.
It has taken me a very long time to learn that embracing challenges requiring skill development, persistence, existing outside your comfort zone and simply making mistakes is ok and crucial for growth. Preparation has always been key but planning for the unknown or uncontrollable may hamper success.
When the wind blows and the rain teams down, laying awake in a tent is mandatory, and I listen to crashing waves on a sloping beach. They thump as they hit the sand and ebb to conclusion. But what were those waves before that moment? Could we have attempted to surf them? Were they confused, messy or ‘munted’? terms I hear regularly on the beach, offering acknowledgement during conversation, but far from knowledgeable about their actual meaning.
Locals launch off flat rocks using the rip to make their paddle beyond the white-water to the take-off point easier. The sky is dark and looks stormy but feels strangely calm, it is early morning and the sun is peering through the clouds. The surfers ooze contentment.
Winter is approaching with surfboards and wetsuits placed carefully in the shed. Hardened Tasmanian swell chasers say it is the best time to catch a wave, but other pursuits and commitments ensure surfing hibernation.
For now, I will study the ocean and remain determined to be more successful, resolute to stand on my own two feet.
Comments
Post a Comment