Longing

I have no idea who this woman is. I shot the photo with my iPhone as I was walking away, and my god, how I wish I’d had a real camera. And real courage. But instead, I spinelessly stole her image after standing a hundred feet from her for well over an hour. And now I recount the whole cowardly affair.

I came to the beach to clear my head. To replenish my soul with the sand and surf and waves. Normally it works wonders on me. This time, not so much. From the moment I drove off the ferry I’ve had regrets. I should’ve gone west. Back to Big Bend. Back to the desert where I don’t seem to mind being alone with my thoughts. I’m not sure exactly why, but it seems way harder to be solo at the beach.

But a friend came down. He loves to surf and today was expected to be a five-star day (on a scale of ten). He also knows I have dreams of doing it again myself, maybe actually getting good at it. Before I left he shared the surf report with me (most of which I did not remotely understand) and in an optimistic moment I grabbed my ex-husband’s surfboard and scratched that excuse off the list. The last two days it sat silently in the passenger seat more or less mocking me. Taunting me. I think I actually heard it mutter, “chicken.”

Yesterday afternoon I drove to the pier, one of the preferred surfing spots. I’m sure there’s some lingo for that, but well, clearly I’m not a surfer. Anyway, as I approached I was stunned to see how many boards were bobbing up and down out there in what looked to me like some seriously choppy, far from ideal conditions. Granted, this is Texas surfing, and you make do, but it was not lost on me how many people were out there cutting through the waves like rockstars on a one-star day.

The next thing that caught my eye was the girl. At that moment she was sitting on the shore, knees to her chest, board at her side, watching the waves. And instantly I began projecting. First I assumed she had already been out, caught some killer waves, and was basking in the afterglow. Because that’s what I want for her, for me, for every woman. And for all I know that may very well have been the case, and believe you me, I absolutely hope it was. But damn if that scenario didn’t dredge up some jealousy, inferiority, self-hate, and ultimately anger. Not at her, mind you. At myself, at life, at the whole goddamned universe. You might be thinking right now, ferfucksake, CHILL woman, it’s just a chic on the beach with a surfboard. Yeah, well, welcome to my madness.

The next plot that ran through my head was this. I saw in her the same longing I have. The same desire. The same paralyzing fear. I felt myself transported to a day, nearly eight years ago, on a beach in Panama, the last time I surfed. I was there with a friend. He’d helped me along for the few days prior, and I’d done ok, but that day I was alone while he surfed with the big kids. I wanted with every ounce of my being to have the courage to go out alone. I spent an hour in the hotel room crying, berating myself for being such a scared girl. Finally I mustered the fortitude to grab my board and walk the 100 yards to the beach. And there I sat, for what felt like an eternity. Crying, terrified, crippled with fear. But something finally tipped the scales and into the water I went. And I actually surfed. On my own. One would think that immense feeling of joy and pride would bolster me still to this day, but as I stood there watching the surfers, and watching the other girl watching the surfers, I once again felt incapacitated with doubt and anxiety. My heart hurt for her. For myself. For everyone who wrestles with unbridled fear to the point of inertia.

She was there when I arrived and still there when I left. I have no idea if either drama I made up in my head was even remotely close to the reality of the situation, but it sure as shit stirred up my own inner demons.

I went to bed last night knowing today was the predicted five-star day, knowing my friend would be here, feeling a ripple of excitement, but mostly a tidal wave of panic and dread. I seriously considered leaving, running away, tail between my legs, a complete coward. But the fact that I’m paid up thru Friday morning, and–more importantly–it’s non-refundable, kept me from fleeing the scene. When I woke I saw his car in the parking lot, piled high with surfboards. Too late to run for it, my next chickenshit plan was to fake sickness. And then I got the text, “Heading out to Caldwell.” As in the pier. Suck it up, Buttercup, it’s reckoning time.

So I drove back to the pier. And holy shitballs, y’all. Every surfer within 500 miles was there. The parking lot was packed. Surfboards of every shape and size were crammed every which way into and onto vehicles. Immediately I felt like a complete poser, said outloud to the universe, “fuck this shit,” drove the opposite direction, and parked damn near a half mile away from the frenzy. Board still gathering dust in the passenger seat, I timidly walked back for a closer inspection. The friend was no where to be found, and so I just watched, more or less from the same spot as last night, and I knew without a doubt this was not my ballgame. I walked back towards my car and set up shop at one of the picnic tables, the board still sneering at me from the safety of my Kia. The waves were definitely more my speed further away from the pier. Maybe, I thought, I could rally the courage like I did all those years ago. I know it’s in there. Yeah, no. Two hours and many silent tears later I packed up and high-tailed it back to my hotel room. Where I proceeded to busy myself with work and lunch and anything to get my mind off the fact that I am a total loser.

An hour or so later there was a knock at my door. The friend, letting me know he was going back for more. I tried to hold it together. He had no idea what an emotional shitstorm he was stepping into and I desperately wanted to spare both of us the stink of it. To no avail. My internal “I’m not gonna cry. I’m not gonna cry. I’m NOT GOING TO CRY,” mantra did not work and within seconds my quivering lip turned to choked up sobs. Bless his heart though, he didn’t run screaming. He miraculously managed to talk me off the ledge, and once more, unto the breach I went.

With inertia and peer pressure on my side, I actually parked with the big kids, and pulled that damn board out of the comfort of the passenger seat. He metaphorically held my hand while I attached the leash and waxed the board, both actions which had me acutely aware that surely everyone there was staring at me and sizing me up for the complete kook that I am. (Block it out, Elizabeth. It’s all in your head.) Preliminary preparations checked off the list, it was time to take the plunge. He tried to encourage me to follow him next to the pier. I politely expressed he was out of his flipping mind and turned towards the smaller waves and way fewer bodies in the water. His parting words to me were, “Look, there are two surf rescue trucks here. You’ll be fine!” That didn’t quite have the reassuring effect he intended, but nevertheless, I trudged on. I knew I couldn’t stop. Any hesitation and fear would grind this adventure to a halt. With the basic safety rules on a loop in my head (Don’t put the board between you and the wave. Don’t turn your back to the waves. Don’t hold the leash.), I entered the great wide Gulf of Mexico. Just me and a board. And a boatload of fear just barely being kept at bay.

I have no idea how long I was out there. An hour at least, maybe two..? But I know this. I got pummeled relentlessly. I only even laid on the surfboard twice. I most definitely didn’t attempt to stand. The entire time was devoted to simply feeling safe and not getting clocked by my board. Sure, I wanted to ride the waves. But damn, y’all, there’s a ton going on out there and just keeping my head above water was about all I could handle. And I have to be ok with that. Even now, my negative self talk is creeping in and whispering to me how pathetic that is, “Whoop-dee-do. You held a surfboard in the water.” Well, yeah, I did. And I have a ripped fingernail to prove it. Yep. Momentarily forgot Rule #3. Don’t hold the leash. Anyhow, yay me. I washed the dust off my ex’s surfboard and I didn’t die.

My friend has already gone home. I’ve got another day and a half here. And as he pointed out, plenty more chances to get back out in the water. Mind you, the next two days are rated zero on the surfing report, but maybe that’s the speed I need for now. And maybe I don’t even go at all. And there’s the kicker. I need to be comfortable with either of those turnouts and not beat myself up black and blue. Way, way easier said than done, but it’s all about baby steps.

And as far as having regrets about choosing the beach over the desert, well, it’s clear now that this is what I needed, despite the fact it has been an emotional roller coaster. That said, I wish I’d thought to pack some Kleenex because the TP here is brutal on the nose. Obviously I had some shit to sort out and this whole struggle sure cracked the flood gates wide open. Now if I can just figure out how to ride out the wave…