There is just nothing
like it.
The standing with your
toes in the water. The watching. Reading the break. Salt air and sand and
horizon. And then the glide of the board and the smooth placement of belly on
its surface, one motion, the first few strokes to paddle out, the baptism of saltwater,
the calm just past the break, the swing up onto the board, the settling in to
watch for the next wave.
The rhythm of surfing
returns so easily, so familiar it’s as if I’ve done it every day since I was a
girl, instead of for a small string of days, just once a year.
Not that I get right
up and blaze sparkling trails through the water – I’m lucky if I catch these
small waves (on Assateague Island in Virginia), luckier still if I stand up for
any length of time. But as yoga instructors like to say, it’s not about
striking the pose on the cover of Yoga magazine – it’s about the movement and
the stretch and how it makes you feel.
And surfing makes me
feel great.
This time was
especially sweet. One early morning I paddled out with my girl, Clara, thinking
I saw some dolphins. And there they were, a big pod of them swimming parallel
to shore. They were so close, we could hear their blow holes erupt with characteristically
hollow sighs. They swam close to one another, in threes and fours, some in mama-and-baby
pairs, and they came so close, maybe 10 feet from us. Twice, one veered off
course to point its nose directly toward us, diving smoothly. We covered our
mouths and held our breath and waited to see where it would surface next. And
then it was back in the line-up. Had it swum beneath our dangling feet?
I told Clara that we
could end the day right there, without catching Wave One, and I’d be supremely
satisfied.
There’s nothing like
it.
