Wondering & wandering
I learned to surf when I was fifteen. Living in East London – home to legends like Rosy Hodge and Greg Emslie and surf spots like Nahoon Reef and Gonubie Point – it’s kind of stupid not to.
After lessons from an instructor who looked like sexy Jesus, I got the whole surfing foamies thing down, graduated to riding the occasional wave and started to enjoy myself. But when I was 18 my dancing took over and after a knee injury, I stopped all sport for a year and a half. Hence my being a writer and not touring world riding waves for a living. Lies. I sucked. But that should never, ever stop you surfing.
This year marks a decade since I discovered my goofy foot and Mrs Palmer’s sex wax. And besides being sensitive about my quarter-century, I’m also determined to get back in the water, even it means being a spluttering, embarrassing mess. I just pray Sexy Jesus doesn’t see me.
I paddled out with the last of my residual upper arm strength. Avoiding the back line, and all the real surfers, I settled for that pleasant space between titanic depths and toddler pools. A nice West blew and I felt confident: today’s the day, I thought, not without feeling self-congratulatory.
I slowly turned around after failing my first duck dive. My nose would survive, my ego wouldn’t. A beauty of a wave started towards me. Seizing the moment, I began to paddle. And then it was at my feet and the board and I alighted. Paddling with the fury of an angry Jack Russell, I propelled myself forward. Thrust onto the wave, we became one: I pulled myself up and for one glorious moment I was not Megan the kook, but the wave itself, blue and powerful and… It didn’t last. Just as I saw my sister laughing at me from the shore, the wave came to a rather flaccid end. My energy drained to that of a sloth and I fell rather shamefully into the warm sea.
This charade continued for thirty minutes. I almost caught two waves (seriously — I wouldn’t lie at this point!) but with only sinew and fat in my arms, I failed to do more than get on my haunches. The lifeguard cast a nervous glance in my direction. I imagined her blowing the whistle and trudging through the waist deep water to haul me out by my hair. I turned to see a guy half my age glide gracefully through the water, slicing through liquid with the finesse of a figure skater. I could do that, I thought. If only I could stand.
I admitted defeat. Faced my board’s nose to the dunes and rode a baby wave to the sand.
Post-surf my mother joined me in the water. Between my sister and I we figured she’s a goofy. She paddled hard and in spite of her terrible balance, experienced the stoke of catching a wave.
The family that surfs together stays together. Or, as my sister so eloquently corrected me: the family that tries to surf together, tries to stay together. And we’re trying. Hard. If only my bikini bottom would stop giving me the wedgie of a lifetime. Wedgies hurt.
Stoke level: 7
Kook level: 10
Next mission to the beach? Tomorrow!
An African Literary Blog
sport. news. personalities. opinion
by Melissa Salvador
let's create something beautiful - Katie Ann De Crescenzo
For lovers of reading, writing, travel, humanity
This WordPress.com site is the cat’s pajamas
Agadir Excursions day trips Agadir tours Agadir Desert Trips Marrakech tours Marrakech day trips Marrakech desert tours,Fes Tours , Fes Excursions , Fes Desert Trips, Essaouira tours ,Essaouira Desert Trips, Rabat tours
Film and Media Reviews, TV, Film, Top 10, News, Blog
A Place To Share Some Grins
My experiences,my thoughts, my life
Medical doctor, book-lover, aspirant adventurer
the Story within the Story
NenaRebel is a blog, a shop & a source of inspiration in everyday life - for the rebel in you!
Thoughts on art, creativity, and the writing life.
An African in Asia
A Blog by Rox + Camera