Surf's up

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.