Surfing

In literary studies, we're often taught to assess a novel by its underlying symbolism, not the quality of its prose or intrigue of its story. George Orwell isn't a good author because he's fun to read, he's good because he writes important metaphors for important problems.

I've always felt this was a disingenuous approach to reading. Why can't I just enjoy the book for what it is, instead of constantly trying to dig deeper into a hidden message? I prefer good characters over good metaphors, but I'm told that's simply wrong.

🌊 🌊 🌊

Yesterday was my first time surfing, and I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. I mean, I'd been told it was a tricky sport, but I imagined if I just watched what other people were doing and played it safe, I'd surely come out unscathed.

On the recommendation of a local, I picked up my clunky rental surfboard and started across the sand to the so-called "easy section" of the shore. Looking out, it didn't seem that bad. A lot of people were on the water already, taking full advantage of the low winds and peaceful waves.

So I started paddling out, and before I knew it, I was ready to try catching a wave. Unfortunately, every time I saw a wave coming, I couldn't turn around fast enough to catch it. I was forced to start looking beyond the nearest wave if I wanted a real shot at riding one.

I began craning my neck to see if there were any good waves out in the distance, but in doing so, I was distracted from the essential fact that the shore was sliding away. The winds were slow, but slow is a heck of a lot more than nothing. Unbeknownst to me, I had already been blown right into the professional section, known to the locals as The Sharks.

Dying

I was in over my head; or, soon to be. The waves were over two meters high, arriving within seconds of each other. My elementary technique was quickly overwhelmed by such powerful force; as the first wave crashed over me, it sucked me deep under the water. By the time I could resurface, the next one broke, smacking me back under. And then another. And another. And another.

I fought this ocean for hours, trading bites of kelp with gulps of frigid seawater, constantly emerging thinking I could best the waves this time. At long last, however, I had tumbled back to shallow waters, where a new battleground awaited. This time, the army was a hundred meters of barnacles and clam shells. I had to swim beside my surfboard so it could float above the rocks, but the waves were still pushing. They repeatedly shoved the board over me, dragging my knees and toes along the angry little clams.

With legs dripping red, at long last I arrived at the shore, where my wrecked body collapsed on the warm sand, trying to catch a breath. I must've been a real sight, because some dudes with mullets passing asked me if I was alright. They also let me know I had been attempting to surf at the professional-rated waters. How reassuring.

I picked up my rental board and started a dejected trek back to the easy section. As I walked, I got to thinking how the heck this happened. It didn't seem like it was purely because of my beginner status, it was more that I failed to recognize the wind's slow, persistent nudging. Had I known how subtle the drift would be, I would've known I should paddle against it.

Trying

I took a deep breath, and started out to the water once again.

Confident the waves here wouldn't kill me, I began to adopt the attitude of a battle-scarred veteran, looking at the incoming waves with steely eyes. During the calm, I practiced rotating my board quickly, so I would be ready to catch the first wave that glanced my way. It wasn't long before I locked eyes with a big swell, closing in fast.

I spun myself around, and started paddling frantically towards the shore as it grew into a foam-crested wall. It hit hard, jerking my board enough to test my grip, but it was over in an instant, and I was left with barely a taste of real surfing. With the wave gone, I was left to ponder what just happened.

As I paddled back out, each incoming wave poured salt mockingly down my throat. I couldn't catch any of them, because I'd let myself be pushed too far to the shore by the first one. By the time I made it back to where I was, the set of waves had passed and the water was flat.

It was nearly five o-clock already, and I was sitting in a lull with nothing to show for but gashed legs and a kelp-filled esophagus. If I was going to properly surf today, I needed to figure something out. I wasn't being blown out of the easy section anymore, and I had learned to not rush into the first good wave I saw. Patience — while knowing my limits — was the new plan.

The reflection paid off, and soon I was on another wave, thrust toward the shore.

🌊 🌊 🌊

I've never experienced anything like surfing before. It's just you and your surfboard, grabbing the ocean by its reins, teaching it to carve the water wherever you please as the crisp summer air rushes by. Yet it's not you that catches the wave, it's the wave that catches you, holding your board so steady you start to wonder, "Maybe I could stand?"

And then it's over, and the sunset on the water reminds you it's time to head home.

📜 📜 📜

Being taught that deep symbolism was the purpose of writing meant I thought myself a bad writer. I didn't see symbols all around me the same way I was told great writers do. In fact, I didn't even look for symbols at all — I just took my world in as it came to me, and tried my hardest to make sense of it.

Yesterday that changed. For the first time in my life, I saw my experience as a metaphor.

The journey to mastering the waves is the same journey we are all living out each day. The quest to tame the raw, unforgiving power of the ocean; it's the perfect analogy for the twenty-two years I've spent on this wacky, wonderful planet.

And I suppose that's it. That's what our teachers were trying to teach us to see, all along.