In a simpler time of life, I surfed almost every day. My friend Schaller and I were always up for anything: dawn patrol at Linda Mar, night surfing in Santa Cruz, being disappointed at Half Moon Bay, getting crushed at Ocean Beach. I surfed along the California coast, kited at 3rd Ave, and surfed in New Zealand. I was christened in saltwater and rebaptized almost daily, for years.
But then life happened and one day I realized that, while I thought of myself as a surfer, owned the board, the suit, the kite, and the other board, I hadn’t been in the ocean for a very, very long time.
When I introduced myself to the other parents in our worldschooling program, I described myself as a lapsed waterman.
In La Barra I have a board, a wetsuit, an ocean, and time. I no longer have the shoulders and the paddle power and the balance and the endurance. Some days I just swim. Some days I paddle out and get nothing, or nearly nothing. I’ve lost a lot of skill.
But I’ve gained some perspective, too. Surfing (for me) is no longer reduced to the drop-in and the bottom turn and the ride. Surfing is instead the sum of all its little acts: the drive to the beach in the morning, the getting into the cold wetsuit, the paddling out, the duck diving, the frantic paddle in, the misjudged wave and the washing-machine ride thereafter.
Very occasionally, getting up and riding is also part of surfing.
And that’s okay, or at least, that’s the reality. The Josh of 15 years ago was chasing bigger waves and a grander retelling, on a different board and in a different body. The Josh of today paddles out to be in the sun and in the water.
