We spent the morning surfing. Riding the green waves and falling into the crashing foam. Fall down, get back up, fall down, get back up. Repeat. The hardest part about surfing (in my humble opinion, informed by two hours in the waves) is simply getting on to the board.
There's no apparent graceful way to sling your body onto soft foam. You have to choose the right moment, between waves and mouthfuls of seawater, to haul your body up and across. Your tummy lands heavy, the leash tangles in your ankles, you have to heft yourself up the narrow body to the perfect position. Haul is the key operative word. It's a strong movement, repeated after every fall, for a few hours running. It's why your shoulders ache later on. An ache I'm hoping to get familiar with over the next few weeks.
My instructor laughed when I grunted, half way over and more likely to slip over the other side than land where I'm supposed to. It is that sort of movement though. A haul, accompanied by a grunt.
I'd understood surfing to be a fluid, elegant sport. Curving along the twist and tumble of a wave, cresting over the top, finding the rhythm of the sea beneath you. It's not. Hauling and hefting are definitely the words that come to mind instead. You're fighting against the rise of the waves, not to mention gravity, when you stand. Elegant doesn't fit.
Around us, everyone wiped out. Big flops into the water. Legs go flying and heads disappear under. No one falls the same. There's no rhyme to it. But everyone did reaappear smiling.
It's impossible not to. There's something in the water. Quite literally. Okay, the standing - hands beneath you, back leg first, front leg strong, arms out - might not come easily, but the smiling does. The waves are infectious.
Even if you're falling too soon, or you miss the moment, there's a smile. Maybe accompanied by some dripping snot (the water cleanses in more ways than one) or a gob of spit (no etiquette in the sea) too. It's so freeing. You can't help it. The world fades away on top of the board, the waves, and it's just the surge up, up up. Until you're soaring towards the beach, salt flying.
It's a funny balance between not thinking about anything but the wave, and not thinking too much either.
The instructors kept repeating that--feel, don't think. A mantra, alongside "find the rhyme" and their commands of "hands first!" and "don't look that way!" called over the surf. Never shouted. Sri Lanka isn't the place for shouting or yelling. Just big smiles and constructive criticism that actually feels constructive. They make it so you don't mind wiping out, arms flailing. It's just the hands, they say. Sort your hands and the rest will follow. Easy to say, hard to do.
If I got my hands right, elbows in, close to the body, strong platforms to push up from, then I stepped forwards with my front leg first, or looked left to the bay instead of straight to the beach. Still, they remained firm.
Just one thing, everything else follows.
The very first wave of the morning I was pushed towards, I caught. I was grinning. The falling, the wrong hands, came later. Nothing was going to stop me though after that first wave. Up again and again and again.
Rubbing salt out of my eyes, knocking my elbows into the board, swiping my hair back to a ponytail. It's the chase. All of the steps, and the fall, worth it.
I want to go back to the hotel and watch surf videos. Follow champions and competitions. A whole new world opened up. Surprisingly accessible too. It's cheaper here of course than at home, as with everything, but price aside... it's not hard. That's not an arrogant declaration of skill either. I wiped out. A lot. But, there aren't plays to learn or rules to follow. It's just the trying. Bursting through the foam again and again until you catch a ride. There's talent and skill, levels to everyone's ability but the spirit of it is in the trying.
And the welcome. I dived off my board at one point, veering too close to a seasoned surfer, and sent the board flinging into his chest, ruining his chance at catching the next wave. Immediately I was apologising, zinc-blue forehead scrunching as I tugged the board back to me.
He just laughed. Waved away the sorry mid-air.
"Don't apologise, we're all having a good time," he said, and paddled off to the next wave.
That was the whole afternoon--a good time. Mistakes and wipe outs weren't bad or embarrassing. People cheered when the newbies, me amongst them, stood, when we flew, when we resurfaced, smiling. The instructors high fived us. We pumped our fists at each other, everyone's wave somehow also yours. The high of it, shared.
I can understand the surfer life now. We laugh at it, the gnarly catchphrases, the loose hair, the shell necklaces, all a cliche before today. Those people seemed like caricatures. Now I get it. Everyone in the water, waiting to help you on the beach, was truly happy to be there, to meet you. To be part of it. To just keep trying to catch the wave and ride it.
"It's not about the money," says the owner of our surf school as we say goodnight, shaking each of our hands, "it's about if you enjoy yourself."
I have no ilusions about becoming a surfing pro (let's be real, I have delusions) but I know I'll be back tomorrow, bright and early. I know I'll keep getting up. Until I get my hands right, until the push is part of one movement, until I'm sunburnt and sore. It's not about the money and it's not about being the best on the beach. It's about the simple joy of getting up, again and again. And again.
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