Facing the Fear

This evening little drops of brine keep shedding from my nose. They taste of Ocean Beach. This morning I braved Ocean Beach, my nemesis, in the company of my friend Scott, and the power of the waves sent saltwater into my sinuses like a firehose.

image source: treehugger.com

If a wave at Linda Mar (my usual break) pushes like a fishing trawler, a wave at Ocean Beach summons the force of a Hanjin container ship, the kind that is six stories high and blares its horn as it maneuvers under the Golden Gate, just a headland north of where we float. There’s no jetty, no reef, no promontory to ease the power of the swells at Ocean Beach; they are delivered to the shore of San Francisco with all the terrible power of the mid-Pacific storms that formed them.

I get jumpy every time I surf O.B. Today I watched the break carefully before I agreed to enter. The waves were small, about four to six feet, and, for this beach, kinda gentle. The sun was out and the water was warm (high fifties!) and Scott and I floated in sight of the white stuccoes of the Presidio and the pale Marin Headlands.

We paddled for the same wave. Scott caught it and soared off to the right, while I thrashed hard and caught nothing. I watched the broad face of the wave roll away from me with one part frustration and two parts relief.

When he paddled back out I hypothesized aloud that the reason I failed was my weight. I’m several inches taller and outweigh Scott by 35 pounds. He looked over at me. “If you’d wanted it, you’d have caught it,” he said.

When I stroke for one of these Ocean Beach waves the swell lifts me like a toothpick and I have a moment to look down the face as my board accelerates under me. Something deep in my brain stem, the part where my chimp forebears learned not to plummet from trees, yells Stop! Danger!

The reasonable part of my brain knows that there is nothing much to fear from falling down the face of a wave – cheerleaders have higher injury rates than surfers, for chrissakes – but there is not much time for the chimp and the collegian to sort things out. In the moment of a wave tipping I have only a second to decide, and if the wave is too big I chicken out.

On one side is fear. I fear the ignominy that ensues if I fall off the wave and Ocean Beach swipes at me like a grizzy bear and sends me spinning, forcing brine into my nostrils.

On the other is joy – the buttery ecstasy of the ride. A feathery memory I can recline on with a smile for days afterward.

One of these days I will huck myself over the thing.