Beach Daze

An image sticks in my mind. A bright pink surfboard, iridescent against the white of the sand beyond, the cobalt of the ocean behind, and the aqua of the sky above. A man is carrying the surfboard. He is ‘older’, his age revealed by white shoulder-length hair and beard. His face lined by surf and sun, but smiling and somehow serene, his body clad in a dripping-wet, black wetsuit. His smile tells of the joy of having been out in the waves. His pink board yells something but I’m not sure what it is. A spark of joy perhaps. It’s the colour that holds me. Dazzles me. The perfect image of it - board, sky, sea, sand, surfer. It crosses my mind to whip my phone out and ask him if I can take a photo. But I don’t. Instead I file the image in my mind. Carry on walking.

There is a group of surfers out on the waves. Rising and falling with the swell. Taking in turns to ride the waves. It looks like fun, but I long ago decided surfing wasn’t for me. For a time, I tried boogie-boarding. At that time, decades ago now, I lived near a famous surf break. A big surf break. I followed the real surfies down to the beach and tackled the waves with my boogie board. Not the huge waves, but some big ones. I felt brave. I loved the power of the ocean. The feeling of being out on it, amongst it, of being one of those people out on the water. Of not being one of the girls sitting on the beach watching the guys. Paddling out, lying in wait with the ocean lifting and dropping below me - not this wave, not this one … this one! Paddle! Scooping at the water with my hands, kicking my feet, waiting for my board’s speed to match that of the water below me, and for the water to take over the work of propelling me. If I missed it, I’d circle back, wait for the next good wave. If I caught it, the surge of the ocean would carry me and all I had to do was hang on and steer, waiting for the wave to break into foam. I loved it when the foam carried me right up, beaching me on the sand. I’d stand up, shake the water from my hair and run back out, eager to go again. I loved it.

Until I didn’t.

The day I stopped loving it was the day I nearly drowned.

The sky was blue. The surf was pumping. It was a perfect day. Until it wasn’t.

I was late onto the wave. I should have pulled out, circled back, tried another wave later. But I didn’t. I paddled on, thinking I could catch up. Rookie error. I was caught at the top of the wave, looking down a sheer face of water. What was it - four metres? Five? I don’t know. It looked a long way. Nowhere to go but down. Down, down, down. I fell. Smashed onto the water.

You think water is soft and forgiving to hit, until you hit it the wrong way. I hit it the wrong way. Jarring pain shot through my body. The wave crashed over me. Pummelled me. I didn’t know which way was up, which way was down. Just water, frothing, rolling, roiling. Me, tumbling. Being tumbled. No air in my lungs. Winded and wanting to gasp for breath but immersed in wild water. Scared. Really scared.

Then, something firm beneath my hand. Rock. Sand. The sea floor. I twisted around and pushed against it with my feet. With all my strength. Through my pain. Up. Up. Up. My head burst through the surface. Air. Glorious air. I gasped for breath. Sucked it in. Looked around me. A wall of water was approaching. I knew I should dive under it. I couldn’t move. My back had seized up. Spasming. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. A wall of water with the strength of the ocean behind it.

Then, strong arms around me. Grabbing me. A voice yelling in my ear: “Deep breath!” Familiar voice. The friend I was out on the waves with. I did as I was told. Breathed deep. He dived with me, under the wave. Holding me. Swimming through it. Back up to the surface. “Breathe!” he yelled at me again. I didn’t need encouragement. Sucked the air in. “Now swim!” he said. I started to say I couldn’t but he had already pushed me towards shore before the next wave hit us.

My back still in spasm, somehow I swam. Somehow I kicked my legs and moved my arms. The wave crashed behind me and the surge of foam pushed me up onto the beach. I crawled forwards and collapsed on the sand. Dazed. Gasping. Shaking. Puffing. Hurting. Breathing. Alive.

A kid ran up along the beach, dragging a boogie board behind him. “I think this is yours,” he said. “It washed up down there.” Pointing. Only then did I realise my leg rope had snapped and the board and I parted company completely.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No worries,” the kid said. “Nice tumble! It looked really specky from the beach!”

I almost laughed. Almost swatted at him. Said nothing.

The guy who had saved me caught a wave in and sat on the beach next to me. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He shrugged. “No worries. It’s pretty wild out there.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Funny to think of that now, all these years later. It’s a story I’ve often told but never written down before. I’ve never gone back into big surf. I’ve body surfed on small waves, but mostly I like flat ocean these days. I have occasionally thought about learning to surf, but I’m never going to be a white haired surfie carrying a bright pink surfboard. For me, that’s just an image from a sunny day as I walked along the beach. And that is just fine.

Thanks for reading,

Jill