Fast forward. I was twenty-six. Five guitars now stood in the corner of my room--but still no surfboards. Truth be told, I don’t think I’d ever even touched a surfboard. Which was odd, considering that I’d always felt like a surfer, if that makes any sense. I’d always felt most at ease at the beach, in the water. I’d always been happiest playing sports. That I should have been a surfer--a great surfer, no less--was as apparent to me as it is that the sky is blue. That I wasn’t--that I’d never even tried--was a mystery without any leads.
My family rented a house at the Jersey Shore one week each summer. I would watch the surfers flock to the sea in droves as the clock struck five; the lifeguards who up to that point had been busy keeping the surfers out of the water would join them. I would watch in awe, particularly on big days, as they carved down the line effortlessly--as if they were standing on something more stable than a thin slice of foam--as if they were riding something more concrete than water.
It was Saturday afternoon, late August. We’d just arrived at that year’s rental property, our first ever on the beachfront. We were out on the deck, congregated around an over-sized cooler packed with ice and beer, soaking in the view. The waves, courtesy of Hurricane Bill, were massive. Eight- and nine-foot set waves exploded onto shore. Dozens of heads bobbed around behind the breakers, scanning the horizon...searching, I suppose, for more courage than they had paddled out with. Only a few had the skill--and the stones--to drop in.
“You should try surfing,” my friend said to me, finishing his beer. “You always talk about wanting to surf.”
He was right, of course. But I surprised myself when I reached for my keys. Was that all I’d needed? All I’d been waiting for? Years of watching and wishing, of dragging my feet along the sidelines, had been brought to a sudden end--and by what? An off-hand suggestion? The gentlest of nudges? How could a lifetime of hesitation be so easy to turn around?
But none of that mattered just then. It was time to buy a board. It was time to learn how to surf.
-----
My first board was my first mistake.
The kid who sold me the board was right. The bigger the better. A bigger board made it easier to paddle, catch waves, stand up, and balance. Easier to learn. And, of course, I could always buy a smaller board later, after I’d mastered the basics. Algebra before calculus. Hard to argue with that.
Everything the kid said made sense. He was undoubtedly right. The only problem was that Kelly Slater didn’t ride a longboard. Neither did Dane Reynolds. Nor, for that matter, did the kids who I’d just spent the last half-hour watching from the deck of our vacation house. I wanted to surf like they did. Naturally, I wanted a board like they had.
“Do you skate?” the kid asked, taking stock of the board I had my eyes on, a skinny shortboard barely taller than I was. “If you’re a good skater, you might be able to learn on a board that small.” He was trying to see things my way. He knew I’d never surfed before, that I knew nothing about surfboards, and that, barring a miracle, I’d never be able to learn on the board I was holding. He was looking for another angle, some shred of hope for me, a reason to tell me what I wanted to hear.
I hesitated. I knew that if I told him the truth he wouldn’t recommend the board I wanted. But the truth was all I could muster.
“No.”
“Yeah...that board’s too small,” he said. It stung like a dagger.
Instead, he recommended some nine-foot-plus monolith. It looked like it could have plugged the hole in the Titanic. I glanced back at the shortboard I wanted. The future had seemed so bright.
“You’ll have more fun on this board,” he said, trying to soothe my wounded ego. “It’ll be a lot easier to learn on.”
“You can always get a smaller board later,” my girlfriend chimed in, siding, of course, with the salesman.
Didn’t anyone understand? I knew I could start with the biggest board and gradually work my way down to the board I wanted. I knew I could get there. But I didn’t want to get there--I wanted to be there. In my clouded mind, I was already there. I’d never surfed a wave and already I was imagining myself challenging Slater for the next world championship. And that would never happen on a longboard.
I took another look at the leviathan the kid was holding and cringed. It was archaic. It looked slow, dull, boring. It was the minivan of surfboards, and I wanted no part of it. It just didn’t feel right.
But they’d never understand that. The saleskid, my girlfriend, my friend, my brother--they were all there and they were all in cahoots. Their argument in favor of the beast stood firmly on the shoulders of logic; my purely emotional plea would never resonate with them.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to fit that board in my apartment,” I said, supplying my own diabolical dose of steely logic.
The salesman, like a boxer caught off-guard by a surprise hook, faltered. His grip on the leviathan eased. Dazed, he looked around, in search of a compromise.
“Um...maybe this could work?” he said, pulling an eight-footer out of its slot.
“Nah, see, the thing is,” I started, feeling more confident by the second, “I know I’m just going to buy another board, a shorter board, the second I get the hang of it. And I can’t afford to buy another board, say, a week from now. I don’t mind getting a board that’s a little harder to learn on if it means I’ll enjoy using it longer.” The logic flowed from my lips with ease.
The kid let go of the eight-footer and grabbed a seven-six. I had him on the ropes.
“You could probably learn on this,” he said. “I wouldn’t go any shorter.”
“Hmm...what about this one,” I countered, pulling out a six-eight.
He looked at the board in my hand. His body language, his facial expression--it all screamed “no.” But he couldn’t say it. I’d beaten him down, exhausted him with my tireless ignorance. He was about to tell me that he agreed with me--that he could see my point--even if he couldn’t.
“I guess.” He said it without an ounce of conviction.
“Perfect.” I was all smiles.
I walked out of the store with my new board under my arm and a new swagger about my stride. Maybe it was a little early to start calling myself a surfer...but it wouldn’t be long.
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