Hang Ten Forever

For the rest of her life. That's how long Eowyn avowed she would be a surfer. Fateful words every parent "loves" to hear. Apparently, her surf lesson with "Jimmy" the tiny giant of the cerulean Waikiki seas was a compelling success. Career formative even. Of course, I encouraged her to pursue that dream. . .right after her graduation from med school. For now, Eowyn just turned seven- the age when hyperbole is acceptably indispensable, the stars are still within reach and the taxpayer's cynicism is still uncurried. It will come (I am her mother) but for now, there is no harm in a surfing dalliance. My words, not Jimmy's.

Instead, Jimmy the tiny giant instructor began waxing poetic about Eowyn's raw "rippin" talent.  Naturally- I presumed- talent inherited from her lithe mother.  So, buoyed by my parental beer goggles, I agreed to go surfing the following day with my friends.

Let me begin by laying the foundation for the following self-deprecating narrative: This was a tremendous mistake.

After being ferried into the middle of the ocean on a Gilligan-styled vessel chartered by John- our virile instructor who was lathered with SPF war paint- I knew I was in over my head (pun intended).  John had a faint accent and clearly waxed his chest- which meant I could not remember steps one to three of "how to surf  like Laird Hamilton." Accents are so distracting. Huddled against the chilly wind in my borrowed rash guard, all I could recall was something about a "cobra" position. "Jump right in," John encouraged. His cheeky optimism smacked of Australian cowboy. Maybe that was the accent? Anyhow, I was scared beyond recognition (of myself) since my fears are generally along the lines of "I am afraid they've discontinued Chanel's lip intensite line"...not "I am afraid to embark on this risky, life-threatening adventure."

Willing a family emergency requiring an immediate return to shore, I remained immobile, fixed to my plank on the deck.  Sadly, everyone was safe and sound.  There I stood assessing John's sun-screened, coaxing smile which begged a plunge into the great depths. Alright, anything for you. (Okay, kidding, sorry John, you are no Christian Bale). But, I jumped anyhow.  

Paddling toward the "channel", I presumed I would have a respite to collect myself while trying not to not to die of exhaustion since my arms were in paralytic shock.  I was wrong. Apparently, there was a slight misinterpretation as my "not me" translated as "yes, me!" when John inquired as to who was ready to catch a wave. Seriously, I was not ready.  And my mortifying wipe out confirmed that.

The rest of the afternoon was more of the shameful same until the singular freak occasion when I actually caught a wave and stood up. I don't know who was more shocked- John or me.   Wobbly, weary, teeth chattering, feet strewn with coral cuts, but I stood up. More importantly, it was captured on film. Indisputable proof that I voluntarily did the one thing that was perhaps worse than child birth- surf at Seconds. Okay, maybe not worse-but it was in stiff competition. And even if Christian Bale were the instructor, unlike my hero daughter, I will probably never surf again...for the rest of my life.