North Star Writers Group

It was my wife’s idea. “Let’s go surfing in Santa Cruz,” she said. This I pondered for a while. It was hard to imagine myself perched on a nine-foot slab of wood, sailing across the ocean, avoiding death. I found out later that it wasn’t wood at all, which was a great comfort to someone who is historically susceptible to foot splinters.

But more importantly, I astutely realized that this would be a wonderful opportunity to more fully acclimate myself to the West Coast. After all, what says California more resoundingly than

surfing? Or at least, this is a native Philadelphian’s impression.

The trip to the beach was one of great anticipation. We listened to the Beach Boys and Simon and Garfunkel, in order to get in the appropriate mood, which is no small task for an East Coaster who is more accustomed to real sports like Texas Hold ’Em and competitive Scrabble. But by the time we had the windows rolled down and could smell the ocean air, I was ready and, one might even say, stoked.

The guy from whom we rented our boards was incredibly amiable. He gave us a very good deal on parking and the impossibly tight surfing suit I rented. My wife brought her own, which I suggested could very handily double as a ski suit. She informed me that this idea was ludicrous, which I accepted. She also informed me that the surf shop guy, who I assumed was just being incredibly generous, was probably under the influence of marijuana. What luck for us, I thought. We’re officially surfers now, and we just saved 15 bucks.

We weren’t allowed to change in the bathroom, which I found somewhat odd. My wife informed me that in these parts, one simply changes outside in broad daylight with the help of a towel. Once again, this was no small task, but we managed without revealing too much of ourselves.

The beach seemed to be incredibly close to the surf shop, but this was before we began the arduous task of lugging our surf boards, which, before long, felt like giant pieces of furniture one only moves with the help of giant men whose job it is to move things like refrigerators and upright pianos. We had to stop several times during our trek to the beach, which I allowed my wife to think was a courtesy on my part, but in reality, was all that kept me from cursing the day surf boards were invented and going straight home.

By the time we reached the beach, we could see kindred spirits doing what we were about to do, mastering the waves, walking on water, having a grand old time of it. It was very exciting.

I was not excited about the prospect of chaining my ankle to the board, which seemed not altogether unlike the way Edmond Dantes was nearly drowned after being thrown off the cliff of the Chateau D’If, or to cite a more accessible example, the way in which Aladdin was nearly executed in the popular 1994 Disney movie. But this was how they did it here, I was assured, and it was completely safe.

After getting nearly destroyed by waves that just seconds ago seemed quite tame, we finally found ourselves belly-down on our surfboards, ready to surf. My wife had received one good knock on the head by her board en route, but aside from that and the loss of a little bit of pride, we were virtually unscathed.

It might come as some surprise, but surfing didn’t go so well. I couldn’t even get paddling down. My wife was almost literally paddling circles around me, the water had to be around 33 degrees, and I would be lying if I insinuated that I even tried to ride a wave. I wasn’t scared or anything. I was just a little distracted by the fact that seeing my hands and feet was all that kept me from assuming that they had broken off and were probably floating around in the ocean, traumatizing my more capable comrades.

After what seemed like a decade of floating in the freezing ocean and feeling very much like The Old Man and the Sea, my wife astutely suggested, “I have an idea. Let’s return our boards and go get drinks.” Once again, I thought about allowing her to think I was doing her some courtesy by acquiescing, but apparently, my misery was all but written all over my face in size 74 Helvetica font.

The way back to the surf shop was not nearly as challenging as was the way there, probably because I was looking forward to doing something about which I was a bit more confident – drinking beer. This part of our surfing experience went very smoothly, and while I regret failing to impress my wife with my natural athleticism, I can only hope that I impressed her with my ability to chase down the waiters (who may also have been indulging in marijuana) and order a large plate of nachos.

If anything can be learned from this wonderful experience, it is that any future attempts at blending in with born-and-raised Californians will require considerably better planning and considerably less interaction with surfboards.

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This is Column # NS052. Request permission to publish here.