The Insidious, Mysterious Magic of Surfing
Amy Skeeters-Behrens, MBA1
Issue date: 10/1/01 Section: Outdoor Adventures
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The dream:
Me, turning and burning in the warm California sun, hair streaming behind me, looking outrageously cool on my board, as all the folks on the beach marvel at the amazing demonstration of agility, handling and speed.
The reality:
Me, wrapped up in a skin-tight, itchy wet-suit, getting pounded by waves twice as tall as me in water somewhere around 50 degrees Fahrenheit;
Me, only getting up on the board because the surf instructor detained me and my board until the perfect wave came along, rode along side me on his board as I struggled to get onto my knees, and then basically held me upright for a period of three seconds (okay, maybe it was closer to two seconds!) before I went flailing uncontrollably into the waves, backward and upside down, as the chorus of “is she okay?” echoed from my new business school colleagues, their SO’s and other miscellaneous persons on the beach;
Me, defeated by the larger waves, attempting the smaller waves in the shallow water, only to discover that falling off a surfboard in shallow water is equivalent to signing on for some serious face plants on the ocean floor. (And again, the chorus of “ooohhh, man, do you think she’s okay” echoing from all concerned.)
But before I get too far ahead of myself, let me take a few steps back to where it all started. Sunny day at Stanford, everyone all smiles, cool second years leading the trip. We headed to Big Sur, partly down scenic Route One. It all seemed harmless enough. When we arrived, a few folks headed off to get a bit of surfing in on Friday evening, but I stayed behind to help set up camp and get dinner started. Little did I understand the magnetic force that was drawing the experienced surfers to the water. It seemed especially strange that they would want to go surfing at that late hour on a Friday evening, given that we had left the sunshine back in Palo Alto and were now dealing with the capricious, windy, overcast conditions of the coast. And after the two-hour-plus drive to get there, I was pooped and was harboring no desire to get cold and wet. It wouldn’t be until the next day that I would really begin to understand the extreme allure of the sport to which these seasoned vets were captive.
Later that Friday evening, our surf instructor, Ed (of Club-Ed Surf Schools fame), delivered a philosophical address around the campfire in which I was made to realize how, not only is surfing a lot of fun, but it’s a lot like business. The wave is the business environment that must be tamed, the board is the team of folks working for you, the sand is... well, I don’t remember all the specifics as it was late, but you get the idea.
Anyway, the next morning we hit Sand Dollar beach. I was surprised and dismayed to find that it was still not sunny, nor warm. But everyone else was getting suited up and jumping in, so there was no turning back. And you know what? I loved it. I hit the water around 10:30 and finally made it back to shore four hours later. My neck was chafed from the wet suit, my triceps were protesting from all of the paddling, and I was exhausted. But I still wanted more. I was hooked. (Editors Note: our sources indicate that the afore-mentioned close proximity of a rather dish-y young surf instructor may have enhanced the author’s newfound appreciation of the thrill of surfing.)
The next day, lo and behold, we were left with little time to surf after breaking down the campsite, so little that the only people rallying to actually go were the novices. All of the vets were too tired or hung-over to take the trouble for only an hour of time in the water. But I guess that what surfing does to you. You get one little taste and it’s all over.