Women on Board: In Fla., Finding Their Inner Gidget

Celeste nodded. "Never see sharks."

Before long, we don't worry about sharks, or anything else -- we've got waves to contend with. Again and again, I work on my standing-up goal. "Will she or won't she?" I imagine my imaginary fan club asking. Again and again, I am an ice cube in a blender, I am a Ping-Pong ball, I am a martini shaken, not stirred.

When I leave this beach for the last time, I'll be pleasantly surprised when it takes only one shampoo to get the grit out. I will discover a little sand in the curl of my ear and reflect on how the shape of my ear is like a seashell, and the sand-ear-shell connection will all make a sort of fuzzy sense. On the airplane home, when I close my eyes, I'll see perfect, glassy waves that fall, slowly, with exquisite grace.

Meanwhile, I keep trying to stand up. Gradually, it dawns on me that regardless of the outcome, I am having a true surfing experience as valid as any other. I am just consoling myself, but I swear it's true -- that joyful roar all around me as I catch my wave is the exact same sensation the big-time surfers get every time they do it. Although, of course, they stand up.

And then I have a real revelation, as I come closer and closer to perfecting the pop-up. I get it, I understand: It's doable. Sooner or later, with repetition, I would do it, and with more repetition I would do it a lot. All the time. I would actually surf -- I would reach that next level of rush.

It turns out this is the treasure I find in the ocean, this new understanding, because, not surprisingly, I never do stand up -- not quite -- in my two days as a Saltwater Cowgirl.

But I have tasted it. I know what it's about, I know it can be done and I will do it. I will paddle Outside, and ride one all the way in.

Sally Shivnan last wrote for Travel about heading south in spring on I-95.