By Sally Shivnan
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, April 16, 2006
I am flat on my belly, pointed straight ahead, traveling in a clean forward line maybe a hundred miles an hour, in the middle of a churning roar -- my wave, my very own wave, how cool is that. But then I have to do the pop-up thing, and I have to do it fast.
So I spring to full upright in one smooth, graceful motion, piece of cake, except as soon as my feet make it forward, I am spinning like a loose plastic lid in a dishwasher in the middle of the turbo cycle. Just like every other single time I've tried it.
Wiping out is the ultimate vacation getaway. Forget no phone, no e-mail, no kids -- this is no arms, no legs, no idea which way is up. It lasts just a few seconds and is actually quite relaxing. It's a curious, in-and-out-of-body experience. And then I'm bobbing in the sea in the sunshine again, my trusty long board floating beside me at the end of my ankle leash.
I am here because I had one of those milestone birthdays -- the big four-seven. I have come with two sisters and three friends for a weekend at Saltwater Cowgirls all-female surf camp in Jacksonville Beach, Fla. Six chicks learning surfing tricks -- trying to, anyway.
But I did get my teeth flossed on that last one. And I got my bikini line waxed on the one before that. My toenail polish is steadily abrading, and it will take two shampoos to get the sand out of my scalp tonight in the shower.
* * *
Jacksonville Beach, with its firm sandy bottom and moderate waves, is an ideal setting for surfing school. Sea temperature reaches the high 70s by April, hits 85 in midsummer, stays 80 in October. Summer air temps reach the 90s; fall is in the 80s. Summer and early fall are ideal for beginners, before the stronger seas of winter kick up.
Jax Beach has a funky, older, party-beach feel about it, though a recent facelift has also given it nice parks and plazas, as well as beach access at nearly every block, and lots of parking. Because of its proximity to Jacksonville it has a strong residential flavor -- people not only vacation here, but live here.
Proprietor Celeste and Laura, her able assistant, are our guides for this journey. Celeste, who has the wildest mop of blond frizz around her head that I've ever seen, is 39, the mother of two teenagers and has lived at the beach all her life. She did not learn to surf until age 27. Her parents had always forbidden it as a lowlife, hippie sport; instead they dropped her off at the skate park, "where 12-year-olds were smoking cigarettes out on the sidewalk," Celeste says. "Like, way better."
She yells at us. "Paddle-paddle-paddle-paddle!" (You need to move if you want to catch that wave.) "Commit, commit!" (You have to mean it if you want to stand up.)
She tells stories. In fact, we get as much storytelling as surfing, but that's because we're on the beach a lot, resting up to go out again, to smash through the whitewater and paddle our butts off to reach the Outside, where all is mellow and peaceful and you can pick your wave.
The Outside is a revelation. Beyond the crashing surf, the swells roll gently underneath me as I lie on my board. It's the only time I really feel like a surfer, because I am just as good at this lazing-about part as the buff, bronze boys who float around out there with me.
We are all of us, silently, sharing the same thing: the warmth of the water and the sun, the huge beautiful ocean, the quiet. We watch rainbows -- the mist that evanesces off the tops of tumbling waves, catching sunlight for a few seconds in a pulse of color. Can't see that from the beach -- only from Outside.
There's an extraordinary tunnel vision to being in the surf, whether trying to ride it or just to keep from getting knocked over -- "poundage," Celeste calls that. The tunnel vision erases everything: other people, other waves, all self-consciousness. The Outside, by contrast, is a gentle, contemplative space where I am able to ponder the question -- the only question -- will I stand up on my board before the weekend is over?
So I try it again. And again. The roar, the rush, the wipeout. I tumble over and bounce around underwater like dice in a cup.
I surface with my arms above my head, the way I've been taught, to protect me from colliding with the board. A guy walks by laughing and calls to Celeste, "Bless you! Someone's got to teach them."
Back on the beach with the other girls, we are all smiles. We talk about the cleansing goodness of having our sinuses repeatedly flushed, and compare underwater experiences. The sharing is a great salve for our sore shoulders and knees -- the camaraderie of clutzy surfer-newbies.
We laugh at ourselves, but Celeste never laughs at us. Never.
When the joking and talking fall quiet, I look into my friends' faces as they gaze out at the surf.They look sober and stoic, mixed with wistful, longing, a little weary. Each of us -- women in our thirties and forties, all with complicated lives we've left behind -- has her own thoughts, staring out at the water. Out there, in the poundage, we are experiencing something we have to work out for ourselves.
When we arrived we all had questions, of course, about predators. Only one of us had the courage to speak up. "I gotta ask," said Kathy, "about sharks?"
"There's never any sharks here," Celeste said. "Never see sharks. Never. Never ever. No sharks around here, ever. Right, Laura?"
"Yeah," said Laura. "Never see sharks. Maybe, in the last year, well, in the last six months -- this summer -- seen maybe one. Seen one. Maybe two."
"We never see sharks," said Celeste.
"If we do see a shark, don't you worry, we'll be out of the water. We get out, just like that, right away. Get right out, don't we?"
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.
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