It’s never an easy feat when partaking in an activity that requires numerous variables to go right in order to participate. For my circumstance it requires a liberated schedule, a two-hour drive, and mother nature’s gracious gratuity. I had recently acquired an 8-foot Big Boy Sting from Aipa to take on the Ocean’s swell and both the board and I were ready for its maiden voyage into the Atlantic. Gear stowed away, water, sunscreen, playlist, yet something was missing, something interactive, something thought provoking, something insightful…something human.
I am no stranger to the vastness of solitude. I revel in the ability to listen to audiobooks for hours, contemplate my own existence almost nightly and place alone time as a significant value. In some of us, not all, we occasionally acquire the desire to be accompanied by a kindred spirit, should we be lucky enough to find one. What the meaning to this desire that resides in the depths of my mind is unknown to me. I like to assume that a kindred spirit, to the beholder, is another human being that shows a reflection of who you are, who you were or what you choose to become. Another human being through our own perception that is unknowingly personifying our own internal reflection. A crude internal projection that usurps another human being into our own likeness. Regardless of the comparisons and metaphors, we now had all the necessities to approach the Atlantic.
The act of surfing can be transformative at times. The unintended consequences of plunging into cold cloudy rough water. The turmoil twists and churns out the pain from your very soul. Its metamorphosis is so sought after that individuals drive to beaches from hours away, surf trips across the globe are executed and sometimes people give up everything in the act of it. To paraphrase Camus, the very thing we will live for is in fact what we would also die for. Anything offering a transformative experience is accompanied by certain levels of discomfort, even danger. As a novice surfer I recognize my own abilities and bargain with my ego to comply, my ever relentless and tumultuous passenger of my psyche. This translation of information was exchanged with my surf partner during the two-hour ride. We both accepted the possible danger just as we also accepted the possible innocuousness of the ride. It was anything but innocuous.
Two hours. Two hours of fruitful thou conversations ranging from life, love and the meaning of starting over. The act of revival, the benefits of renewal and the process of resurfacing. Just two kindred spirits speaking through mediums of art, favorite books and musicians and how they braided into each other’s individual soul. Whatever dread we possessed individually from the work week, life or just our own collection of anxiety and anguish was extinguished, long before the Ocean’s swells could do it. Ironically, the very activity that connected two individuals seeking this diversion was the chain that created an even greater experience. The experience of two Souls expressing their existence amongst each other, two souls, being. The humanness of the trip was nearing its finality, nature would soon join the conversation, enter the Atlantic.
The body of water needed no introduction as we entered its domain. The swell oscillated and the tides had a personality of its own, never ceasing, never resting. The sun was vibrant and daring and illuminating. The warmth from the rays gifted us enough courage to plunge into the deep. Against our backs was the translucent full moon from the night prior, our cosmic spectator, awaiting the aftereffects of the Ocean’s will. Our cosmic spectator vanished while watching two individuals amongst the shallows paddling into something not quite understood but paddling out regardless.
The skills one possesses do not translate to the immensity of the Ocean. If skill specific practice isn’t undergone at the medium of the Ocean, it will inevitably remind you. I was not habituated unfortunately. The waves brought me under, constantly fighting for air, for life. The sequence of waves would last every 6 seconds, with a 20 second interlude after the flurry had concluded. The path opened and this was my chance, the chance to push through the current, conquer the distance between me and my powerful adversary that was currently generating its modality. Unhinged, this mass of energy disguised as healing elixir threw me from my board time and time again, further away from the break, from the healing. Unable to oblige this ubiquitous leviathan, I finally succumbed. My ego, holding the dismal corridors that house my intentions, wills and fated emotions, emotions closest to myself, emotions that live with failure and regret, had emerged. I fought with him, the prideful persona of my inner depths, the inner sage. The wise sage spoke wisdom instead of fear and anguish. In order to renew, one must succumb.
The ocean had defeated my carbon-based body, exhausted me mentally but spiritually there was newness, a chance to be reborn, a chance to resurface. How merciful you are to allow such life changing and spiritual effects on mortal beings. This journey is so short. Of all the possibilities with my short life, so many goals and reveries, I am here. By doing so I’ve greatly accepted your invitation, an invitation to continue living. Through this absurdity that is life, I am able to share the same timeline as this great primordial challenger, I am able to form a bond, albeit temporarily. Like all great relationships, either bitter or true, mine with the Atlantic ended with separation, the lasting effects did not leave so easily.
I took the invitation to continue living, truly living. Gliding to shore I encountered my surf partner, wondering if he too experienced the baptism, the renewal. The sea had given me another chance to resurface. I don’t know if its depression, seasonal dread or just the nature of being innately perishable that cause my conscious or unconscious to crave renewal. The fact that tomorrow houses the immense chance of forces effecting my mood, mentality, values and physicality invites pathos. Time and gravity, will it, demand it, the very laws of the universe embellish suffering and degradation. Through the resurfacing I accepted my outcome, the inevitability of my physical demise. The ego acknowledged this choice from his corridors of despair, as the ocean cleansed them, an exodus of anguish. Time, nature, Us, we are continual, we are linear. Our fortunate or unfortunate fate lies in the same story of our predecessors, defeat. Knowing the final outcome doesn’t paint the entire story though. The journey is just as beautiful and fulfilling as the ending, forever embed in time, unshaken. If this process is equally as important as the finality, then I am resurfacing to finish the portrait, my way. All this insight supplied by fiberglass, a kindred soul and the Sea, beautiful and renewing in all of her glory. This post was very personal to me, thank you.
What I am listening to:
Lana Del Rey Anthology
Myth of Sisyphus – Audible
Help I’m Alive – Metric
What I’ve been doing:
Bjj
Yard work (adding an additional green house for tropical plants)
Spending time with good friends and dogs
SURFING!!