The Hardest Sport I’ll Ever Love

If you stood on shore and watched me surf, you would not be reminded of the muscular boardwork of Laird Hamilton or the boys of “Endless Summer” cruising off Diamond Head. You would watch me pitch face-first off my board, again, and ask yourself: Should I call 911?

Photo Credit: your-local-surf.blogspot.com

Then, as you saw me sputter to the surface, you would think, Wow, that guy must really love surfing. I have been surfing sporadically for seven years now and am proud to say I am no longer awful. But the learning curve has been almost as painful as the wipeouts. If one learns from falling, I ought to be a Rip Curl posterboy.

Fortunately my shortcomings can be explained with simple math. The overwhelming majority of time one spends “surfing” is, in fact, just a bunch of floating. Go ahead and watch sometime. Occasionally a good wave comes through and then it’s time for the falling (off the board that is). And once in a while, when the right wave comes through and you don’t fall, then you’re surfing. On a good day, this will represent 30 seconds of a three-hour surf session.

By this arithmetic, in my seven years of “surfing,” I have spent, optimistically, ten minutes actually riding a wave. This is about the length of two runs at a ski resort. Think of this when the paramedics pull me from the water, and please look appropriately sympathetic.

The damn thing is I love it anyway. I love strapping the board to my roof. I love floating out through the chaos of whitewater to the smooth swells. I love watching the birds wheel overhead and the sun glistening on the water. I love the drama inherent to a wave, coiling in silent power as it heads toward land. I adore a good ride, of course, but I even love the wipeouts – falling down the face of a wave, arms pinwheeling as if I’ve been thrown from a skyscraper, getting tumbled in the power-washer, and, after this epic catastrophe, bobbing to the surface intact and having the chance to paddle out and try it all over again.