My Epic Journey

For the last two years I've been plagued with injuries that have sidelined me. Most maddening is that they are "invisible" to everyone. Enough to keep me from running (or even swimming!) but not so much that anyone would notice in my day-to-day life. It messes with my sense of reality too because I wonder to what extent I'm limiting myself because of fear. I'm not sure because the part of me that is deeply lazy is a little too willing to buy into my PT saying "don't run, don't life weights". There is another part of my brain that is screaming for me to "get going!"

I've written about my aborted epics before. Last year, injury sidelined me from my marathon attempt, and currently from a proposed backpacking trip to the Grand Canyon. 

I started writing this essay several days ago about a vacation I took last winter that didn't go as planned. I went to Costa Rica to once and for all learn to surf. I wanted to write about the feelings of alienation travel can bring but I found something else. So, let me begin.

Santa Cruz (a thirty minute drive from my home) is one of the great surf capitals of the world. Not far from there is Mavericks Beach--home of the Mavericks big wave surf invitational. Living here nearly all my life, I figured I should learn to surf. Seeing kids carrying their boards under their arm with one hand on the handle bar of a beater bike stirs something up in me...but why now? It never occurred to me when I was a teenager or in my 20s to try it. 

The summer before my 40th birthday I saw an ad for an all women's surf camp in Costa Rica--I really wanted to go. It just seemed like a great way to turn that milestone. I ended up not going but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. 

I tried surf lessons in Hawaii and Santa Cruz. The ads all say "we guarantee you will get up". How can they guarantee that? I never was able to get up on the board...I'm very tight in my hips and ankles so "popping" to my feet from a laying down position is really a problem. It was frustrating to see everyone else getting up on the board but me. Paddling out wasn't a problem but once I was in position I couldn't manage to get my feet under my hips. Or if I did manage to drag them into place the wave would die out. Still, the idea was there in my head.

The year before my 45th birthday was a difficult one. My partner Keri was out of work and her Father had moved to San Jose to be close to her. He was very sick and in decline. Our lives revolved around his care especially numerous hospital stays due to random seizures that were never fully diagnosed. I wanted something to look forward to. With my 45th birthday on the horizon I decided to take an epic journey and solve the mystery of surfing forever.

Going to surf camp isn't epic in the same way climbing Machu Pichu is or taking a cross continental walk but it captured my imagination. When things were difficult I imagined surfing in warm water under a tropical sun, getting tan and enjoying the company of good women. I booked my trip 7 months in advance and started doing things to get ready--brushing up on my Spanish, doing pushups, swimming and stretching. I didn't have much time to work on these things but I reminded myself that these sorts of vacations are for beginners and almost everything I read seemed to say that this would be "my moment". With this in my mind, I had a place to retreat to when things were challenging.

The months passed and while my father in law had a good living situation, his health continued to decline. Less and less he resembled the man I had known from my teenage years. 

On the eve of my departure for Costa Rica my father in law passed away. We knew he was close to death and we had made preparations. Keri and I had talked about it and she agreed that it was ok for me to go on my trip. A friend drove us so Keri and I could talk before I checked in. My flight left at midnight.

My expectations were sky high. Leaving a grey February for warm waters, friendly instructors and one of the friendliest countries on earth seemed so decadent. I was ready for the break.

Camp started a day after I got there. I booked a room at the local no frills surf hotel and settled in. My roommate for the camp arrived early too--a lean, hardy woman from the Northern Territories of Canada who didn't blink once at the two-day trip. The next morning she found me and invited me to walk up to the resort so we could look around. I anticipated it would be 15-30 minutes so I just locked the door to my room and met her out front. From the signs it looked like we should turn left--we really should have turned right. We walked for 2 hours before we decided to go back--I hadn't applied any sunscreen yet so I was really sun burned by the time we got back. Also, my flip-flops rubbed two open sores on my toes.  We were both pretty tired so we decided to try a different route to get some relief from the heat--we walked back along the water's edge and I let the salt water cool my feet. I figured it would help heal my blisters and toughen my feet up.

That afternoon the rest of the girls showed up--many of them from far North--4 sisters from Saskatoon, my room mate, girls from Toronto, New Jersey, New York, 2 from Minnesota, and two on the way from Anchorage. There was a camp alumni from California there too who brought a friend from San Diego.

Clearly there is something I didn't understand about northern girls and water because just about everyone of them was a natural surfer. Actually, I think they are just plain old tough.

My expectation for the week was that I would gradually build up my skills over the five days we had together. I tried to do everything right--I picked a white rash guard (I looked like a Beluga) to keep cool and applied a generous amount of zinc oxide. The instructors went over the basics--the same lesson for paddling and popping up I'd had in Hawaii and Santa Cruz. I was still having problems with flexibility but just decided I was going to give it my all--I had five days to do this. The water was a little rough but I managed to stand by the end of our session. I shuffled to my feet and stood like a peg on the board, feet almost together and rode the wave in. Mission accomplished! I was too excited! I couldn't wait to do this again.

I felt so lucky to be on this trip. This wasn't an ordinary group of women I was with either. These were scientists and artists and athletes. Many of them had similar stories to the one I had about my year. One of us in the space of the last year lost her mother to breast cancer. After that she was also diagnosed with breast cancer and had only finished treatment a few months earlier. Another lost her husband. Another, like me, also was on the brink of losing an in law (her family also urged her to go on her vacation). Here they all were in the rough surf enjoying this "new to them" sport. This group seemed so perfect for me to bond with and share.

The next day I looked forward to building on my previous success, hopefully standing again and catching more waves. Something was wrong however. The surf seemed much rougher. I couldn't position myself. I got stuck in an area where the rip tide kept tumbling me. The huge longboard was difficult to manage in the water and I got tired quickly--I was probably more fatigued than I realized. After swallowing salt water and of being bashed I was done. Close to tears I told the instructor I was going to go "do some work." "Work" is a fine reason to bail on anything. I did have my father in law's memorial to write but my real reason for getting out was feeling beaten up--I was in the grip of fear and wanted shelter from it. My little victory of the previous day vanished. I felt small. 

Because of my beaten up state of mind my personal grief was close to the surface and I was able to easily write my memorial for Doug--pain has a tenderizing effect. I tried to regain perspective but every part of me hurt inside and out. When the girls all came in for lunch I felt disconnected and wanted to hide. Instead I did my best to engage in conversation over lunch, turning all topics back to them and cheerfully shrugging my morning disgrace off. 

I felt a little better and reminded myself that I had three more days to figure the surfing thing out. That afternoon girls from Saskatoon created a little party on their lanai--we drank a lot of beer and laughed. I liked these girls--I was having a good time and my morning seemed like some rotten bad luck. I was sure the next day would be better. 

The surfing was better the next day--still rough but manageable. I didn't stand --I kept getting my feet on the board but had one hand down still--3 legged cat pose. I took it easy and kept trying. 

Mid lesson I saw that the outside waves were a deep rust color. "What is that?" I asked the instructor. 

"Oh, that's red tide".

Hmmmm, toxic algae bloom! Excellent!

That night there were plans to drink tequila and have a big dinner. One of the instructors brought her guitar to entertain us but people started disappearing early. That morning everyone had a little drink of red tide. My poor room mate was in a little ball on her bed. Just about everyone was up all night in the bathroom. I had a little stomach upset but I developed a rattle in my chest--I had aspirated the water. Most of us took the morning off. While taking a break next to the pool I decided to see how my blisters were healing--when I took off the bandage I saw they were red and oozing. All I could think about was necrotic tissue disease or full body sepsis with no hospital for miles. 

I abruptly got up and walked down the beach to the little doctor's office I saw near the crossroads. Luckily I brought cash with me! His air conditioning was on full blast and he had a little dog that followed him around. He let me know he never went out to the beach--too much bacteria especially in the road dirt. He prescribed antibiotics, dressed my toes, made an appointment to get the dressing changed and told me under no circumstances was I to go back in the ocean--at least not for the next several days. So, there ended my "epic journey". 

Of course back at the camp everyone was sympathetic and understood. I felt like a dope. My surf instructor was still hopeful that I would have another surfing day and brought out the largest board in the shack. God bless Annie but I was relieved to have a doctor's order to not go out again. If I had the spirit in me I probably would have just went with it and let the cards fall where they might (as I write this, I see that I did the smart thing which probably in the long run was the right thing...I just wish my spirit was there urging me to do the dumb, risky thing).

I smiled and did my best with the situation--I took pictures of my camp mates surfing and helped bring in boards. When everyone went their separate ways I still had a few days left--I had planned to go hiking in the jungle or snorkeling at Tortuga Island. Because I was still coughing I spent my remaining time away from the water, reading in my room or sitting by the pool. I got extra massages, spent time writing and chatted with the locals. I actually rested--a unique luxury.

By the end of the trip I had reframed the experience as being something I needed--not being a surf goddess, but coming to a full stop, spending internal time. Now, many months later, I realize I need to finish my "epic journey". I don't know if that means I need to take another trip to Costa Rica or what. I'm not sure where surfing fits in but I don't feel I'm done with it (even if its not ultimately my thing). There is all this physical therapy I need to do for my hip and my forearm. Its very boring and its easy to lose faith in the process because everything seems to take such a long time and works on a micro level. 

Staying at it is part of my epic-- my long game. I'm tempted to compare my experience to the outcome others have had. I'm not there yet...I'm still writing my epic.