"Wipeout" Doesn't Even Begin to Describe it...

Warm tears spilled down my face as I dragged myself out of the ocean and up the bridge to camp, thankful for the unrelenting rain that was still spattering from the sky, a watery camouflage to mask my choking sobs.

It doesn’t fucking make sense. I swore angrily at myself, unable to grasp the reasons behind my piss poor performance in this morning’s lesson. Two times I had stood up for longer than a couple of seconds. Two times in a goddamn hour and a half.

Pathetic.

“I don’t understand, you should be turning by now,” John had said to me, after what seemed like my 257^th wipeout. He’d meant well, he’d wanted to rile me up, help me channel my anger and frustration into surfing. But I was too far gone. I felt like a failure.

The lesson had been only half finished, but he’d seen the exhaustion nestling in behind my eyes and sent me out of the water before I could get hurt, or worse, grow more disheartened.

“You and I are going to get in a lot of arguments,” he’d said yesterday, a comforting smile painted across his face. “Because I think I have more faith in your feet than you do.”

His words played over in my mind as I stood eyes closed under the shower, willing the scalding water to wash away my salty tears. I wanted to have faith in my feet, I really did. I wanted to “just jump up” and “look forward” and “keep your weight over your toes” and “don’t think about it” and ahhhh there was just so much to remember and I couldn’t. Stop. Thinking.

I collapsed into bed with heavy eyes and a gloomy spirit, and fell asleep the instant my head felt the soft give of my candy-striped pillow.

***

“It’s really nice outside,” Curtis said, waking me up. I’d been asleep for a few hours and I could see the sun streaming across a bright blue sky through the window in our cosy bedroom. “Want to come for a surf? See if you feel better?”

I rolled over, away from his touch. “I hate the ocean,” I mumbled, still groggy and feeling no less miserable.

But as he changed into his boardies and pulled on his favorite Rip Curl rashie I bought for $7 at a thrift store in Melbourne, I wondered if maybe a surf was what I needed. A chance to put back together the pieces of my shattered ego, and remind myself that I actually could surf.

I changed in a hurry and followed Curtis out to the surfboard racks. After selecting the two best boards and rummaging around for some wax, we headed out to the water, and I finally caught some waves.

It wasn’t my best surf, the waves were messy and, though small in size, came pounding in one after another making it difficult to paddle out. But I stood up. I stood, and I turned, and I kept my weight over my toes and my gaze on the tree line in front of me. And even though I’m pretty sure I was still “thinking about it,” I could feel the confidence creeping cautiously back into my body.

I didn’t realize when I signed up, but in addition to a surf course, the Academy is going to be an all out war inside my head. Each day—each session—a battle of its own, some (like this morning’s) resulting in mental destruction, and others more victorious.

I am not a quitter, but I’ve come to realize I can be easily discouraged, and I have a feeling that tackling this mental obstacle will be my most difficult undertaking in the eight weeks to come.

So to my brain I say, bring it on.

ts…