Surf’s up and I went down, over and over again.
But boy was it fun. I think I’ve found a sport where even taking a spill is enjoyable. (I face-planted so many waves, my nose is crumpled up.)
I was one of those kids in college who spent far too much time studying to ever take to the waves. Ahh, who am I kidding? I have the coordination of a three-legged yak and the surgeon general has expressly warned on packages of cigarettes that I should never try surfing. So I didn’t, not once in the all the time I’ve been in St. Augustine.
But this past weekend, Flagler College alumni who know how to surf got together to teach non-surfing alums how to ride waves. And it was awesome. (Why did I study?)
Let’s not fool ourselves: surfing is a dangerous sport when you’re someone as accident-prone as me. Plus, you have to worry about drowning, being sucked out to the Bahamas, being gnawed on by a shark or a sea crab, and having all of your body hair ripped out by the wax you rub on the board.
But I tell you, I’m hooked. I’m no good, but I’m hooked. I drank a whole lot of water (my sodium intake is good through 2024), but it was a total rush. I’m even contemplating buying a board so I can continue to humiliate myself in front of surfers who actually know what they’re doing.
“Do you surf?” someone will ask as I march down to the sea with my stick.
“No, mainly I fall off,” I will reply.
Longest ride on Saturday: .0625 seconds. A new record!
Commonly heard on the beach was this: “That dude’s combining surfing with ballet. Rad!”
My instructor, Linda O’Rourke, was phenomenal — maybe the best. Why so good? Partly her patience, and it takes a lot of it to deal with a guy who retains maybe 2 percent of what he’s told. And partly because she said things like, “Brian, you look tired. Let me paddle this board out for you and then you can hop on.”
“Really?” I said. “Cool! I’ll be up on the beach having coffee. You just give me a little wave when you’re ready.”
Poor Linda, though. Not only was she battered by the rough waves, but she also spent the day behind my flailing feet, which spun the whole time like propellers. She must have lost three teeth back there, and for that I apologize.
But it was a lot like being a kid again. And people talked to me like a little kid: “Brian, you’re not going back out without sunscreen.” “Brian, you tie your shorts tighter this time. The moon shouldn’t ever come out at 10 a.m.” “Brian, don’t pet the shark unless you want to draw back a bloody stump.” Just like childhood.
Then they tie you to the board with a leash. Huh? Now I’m a dog?
There was all kinds of terminology I didn’t understand. Goofy foot? That’s when you plant your left foot back on the surfboard.
Sex wax? That’s what you rub on your board so you can grip it with your feet. Oh!
Stick. Stoked. Soup. Pearl. Worked. Line-up. Duck diving. Chop. Break. Corking. Medic! (Well, that’s the same as in the real world.)
I went to flash the surfing hand signal for “hang loose,” except I raised an extra finger, which told everyone “I go with the devil.” (The surfing signal, I learned, is pinky out with thumb up, also useful for hitchhiking with a broken little finger.)
What a day. What a sport. I’m hooked, and now you’ll have to excuse me from my studies so I can go hit the waves. Cowabunga, dude … and maybe if you see me, just give me a couple hundred yards clearance for your own safety.