Tanner Freed
Sandra Dihlmann, Instructor
ENG 272—Creative Writing Nonfiction
Assignment: Write a personal narrative.
My Break
I must have looked like an overgrown penguin, waddling awkwardly toward Pacific Beach in my borrowed black wetsuit with my longboard and no knowledge of the trials that lay ahead. It wasn’t too busy there, even though it was a warm day with blue skies. I figured it was because this was a weekday, but Sean, my guide and the owner of the gear I was waddling around in, told me that Pacific Beach just wasn’t that popular among surfers—the waves weren’t that great.
My initial instruction was a shock to the ego. I laid my board down on the warm sand and assumed the paddling position, pretending to swim on land. People began to stare, some even looked genuinely concerned, apparently under the impression that I thought I was really in the ocean. Then, I was supposed to get from this swimming position to a standing position without having my knees touch the board. This process is like a really intense pushup. After about ten dry runs and ten of the most intense pushups I’ve ever done, Sean told me it was time to hit the water. Arms burning, I picked up my board, which now felt as if it was made of lead, and waddled toward the ocean.
I’ve swum in the ocean before, jumping over waves and splashing around, but never have I tried to swim against the break while attempting to control a surfboard. Swimming against the current is like swimming upstream in a river while getting hit in the face every few seconds by a new wave: it was so disorienting that, after a while, I didn’t know in which direction I was swimming. Then suddenly the beating stopped, and I was just floating what seemed like miles away from shore. Sean sat perched on his board as if it were a barstool, waiting for me to stop gagging on the salt water I had swallowed on the way out. My arms were throbbing from the swim, and I could barely hoist my body up onto the board. Once I accomplished the task of getting up, I realized the balancing act my guide was performing was more difficult than it looked.
Finally making my perch I gazed on what must have been the equivalent to being atop the Rocky Mountains after a good hike in March. It was pure satisfaction, watching the swells come in, waiting for the one that was just right to ride. I shielded my eyes against the vicious afternoon sun, sparkling off the water like millions of blinding little halogen lights, searing my retinas. The people meandering along the beach looked like ants; some of them stopped to lie in the sun before scurrying away. All that was audible was the crashing white noise of the waves.
My ego may have been bruised on the beach during my instruction, but now I was in the midst of some really good surfers. This took me down yet another notch. One after one they would spot a nice swell and start swimming. As they picked up momentum, the swell would build behind them, turning into a slope on which they would pop up, riding all the way into the beach. Then they’d turn around and swim out as if they hadn’t already been swimming all day.
Finally, it was my turn to try chasing a swell. Sean helped me spot one on the horizon that seemed promising. As it neared, Sean barked at me to start paddling hard. My arms began to burn; I kicked my board in my frenzy to paddle harder. Then, I began to feel as if something was picking me up, pushing me forward. Suddenly, I didn’t need to paddle at all. My board was racing forward and I was along for the ride. I attempted to pop up on the board as I had so valiantly\practiced on the beach, but my arms felt as though they were filled with seawater. My attempt to stand turned into a face-plant, directly into my board, and an introduction to the bottom of the ocean. The crashing wave drove me down to the sand and fish under meat grinderesque pressure, dragged my face along the bottom, and hit me on the head with my own board for good measure before hoisting me onto the shore like a hunk of beached kelp. I stopped spitting sand from my mouth just in time to see Sean ride a wave all the way in, as if he were on a moving walkway in an airport. This scene repeated itself a few more times. It seemed as if I was never going to stand up.
Yellow turned to deep orange as the sun began to fade. The surfers began to leave, along with the tourists and sun bathers, but I was determined to make it up, just once. A promising swell came in, and I began to paddle as hard as my ragged body could manage. That now familiar feeling of rushing forward came again; I gripped the sides of my board, closed my eyes, and pushed as hard as I could. I tucked my knees and my body swung forward like a toy bird that rocks back and forth as if to drink water. I planted my feet on the board. I hesitantly opened my eyes to witness the breaking wave rising behind me while the crystalline water slipped under the board. I was rushing toward the beach while little splashes of water nipped at my calves. All at once I was calm, terrified, and excited, just before it ended and as soon as it had begun.
Now, toward the end of my ride I decided to try a turn, to shoot straight into the beach. With increasing confidence, I attempted a turn that on a snow or wake board would have been beautiful, but turning on a surfboard isn’t like snow-boarding, where control over direction comes mostly from the rear foot, the rider’s weight shifted back, the front foot pointing the board. It’s exactly the opposite. I managed to turn my board a little, but before I could change my steering method, the wave once again sent me under for a mouth full of sand and a nose full of salt water. And then that was it; I was done.
That night out at dinner I had a headache that began to move down from my forehead, and suddenly my nose began to pour water. The ocean had her way with me that day, and I’ll gladly give in to her again.