I’ve just logged 1500 clinical intern hours in record speed, have been going to therapy with Majie for four months. Too bad I can’t get frequent flyer miles for either. I’m headed in the right direction though, right? So before my practice gets started I intend to celebrate not just completing my training, but having pushed through this loss and confusion being in marital limbo for three years.
What do I imagine would feel fun, even if I do it alone? I do a little soul searching eyes closed sort of thing and ask. I will learn to surf. I’ll sign up for surf camp. I grew up at the beach, but was too busy acting as some under-aged, unlicensed, self-elected mediator at dinners out with my parents at California Pizza Kitchen rather than get stoned and enter the green room. Most importantly with this camp setup, I’ll meet new friends, have big group meals -- all social, all the time. The package including all meals with the other campers seems over priced, but I decide it’s worth it. I loved camp as a kid. I pack my duffle bag with books so when I’m not surfing or socializing, I’ll read. The change will do me good.
I arrive at the tiny airstrip in Costa Rica. Tyler the camp leader picks me up. Tan, tall and blonde, every part of him screams surfer. He helps carry my stuff to the camp Jeep. I can’t wait to meet my surf buddies.
“So are we headed to meet up with the other campers, or do we not get together till dinner?”
“Um…” Tyler pauses. “Well…”
Oh no. I look down at my hands as if I’m contemplating a manicure, while I wait for his reply. I’m nervous about meeting everybody.
“You are kind of the only camper.”
Are you kidding? I am the whole camp? Oh Jesus. Of course. I can’t believe I flew all the way down here to eat alone -- again. But I pretend like it’s no big deal. As we drive toward down the dirt road passed cows and rubber trees, all I can think about is what I shelled out for these big “group” meals. If it’s just me, I just as soon have a street taco. Plus, does that mean I’ll be paying Tyler to eat alone with me every night? Not only is this over priced, it’s humiliating.
I’m embarrassed to ask, but my pocketbook urges. I muster the guts to ask before camp actually ‘starts.’ Tyler helps me take my luggage to my room.
“Uh Tyler…about those big group dinners…Could I um…downgrade from the deluxe package?”
God this is embarrassing. I hate that I’m nickel and diming him. But I will not rent a dinner companion for the next seven days. Buck up. This will be great. But I’m also freaking out about spending all day alone with myself without work. And surfing with the “group” only happens twice a day. That’s right, I’ll read those books. I’ll read the twelve books I brought. But by day three and five books down, my paddle feels stronger. I’m confidant. I mean aside from the little mishap with the stingray -- the gash in my foot from stepping on his tail, and the shooting foot-to-groin pain from his venom – besides that, things are going really well. And surely, the odds of encountering another deadly sea snake like the one I saw the day after Sergeant Stingray, surely the chances of that must be miniscule.
The good news: Tyler thinks I’m ready to paddle to the outside, beyond the whitewash waves you learn on, which today are bigger than I’ve seen it here. But I can do this. I will do this. So I’m paddling out, paddling out, getting absolutely nowhere. The waves feel like they surround me, repeatedly launching my monstrous board into the air. I’m getting hammered. Utterly.
In the distance I hear, “Megaaan!” “Megaaan!” It’s Tyler. What in the world does he want? Can’t he see I’m busy getting beaten senseless in some cruel oceanic spin cycle? I ignore him. I’ve got work to do.
“Megaaan!”
Dude, shut up. Seriously, can’t he see I’m working? I’m busy paddling.
But he won’t stop. “Megaaaaaan!”
Lest I get in trouble, I turn my board around, catch some white wash and reluctantly head in. I scramble to my feet, dragging my behemoth board to him. He looks irritated.
“Megan, you were stuck in something we call an impact zone – where multiple waves from different directions crash all together. And you were in the center of it. But you were so busy fighting it, you couldn’t see it. You’re a stubborn chick. When you find yourself struggling that hard, you know you are in one. Don’t stay in an impact zone. Ever. Paddling harder is not the answer.”
I drop my board and sit down on the sand. “Impact zone?”
“Yes, and often it’s best to head in, stand on the shore, so you can look back out and get a better view, find a smooth line to the outside. So look right now. See? That sort of passage just ten feet over? The water is much calmer there.”
“Oh goddd…” Nobody ever told me about an impact zone, let alone that I could opt out.
“You mean I’m not supposed to get sucked down, chewed up, and spit out with my swimsuit on backwards?”
Tyler shakes his head. “Megan, it doesn’t have to be that difficult. With practice you learn how to exit those clusters in one swift stroke, and eventually you can avoid the trouble entirely. Don’t worry. Today was your first time in those conditions.”
“Well, Tyler,” I say looking out at the water shaking my head. “I didn’t know I had a choice. You know when I look at the bigger picture of li…”
Tyler looks a little befuddled, that I’m choosing right now to get all metaphoric.
“Look, I don’t know about all that. Just grab your board and get out there. Stay to the right this time.”
I grab my long board and put it over my head. The thing is unwieldy. I craved to be skilled enough to ride a short board that I could tuck coolly under my arm. But that was happening no time soon. I start to paddle out again. I’d always thought giving up the struggle would mean I was a quitter. Or would it? I mean, just because I’m capable of treading water to the point of near-drowning, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Maybe sometimes, sitting on the shore with a mango iced tea, is the bravest choice you can make.
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