When I finally come up for air—after spinning, flipping, somersaulting, and twisting under the waves for what seems like an eternity—I spit out a mouthful of ocean water and wonder what compelled me, at age 42, to take up surfing. I’m not an especially athletic person; these days, even a leisurely walk around my neighborhood in Northeast Los Angeles causes my knees to ache. I used to be more active. As a teenager, I skied and skateboarded and clambered over large rocks and rode a bicycle for pleasure. But in adulthood, I spend most of my time sitting at my desk, staring at a screen, and feeling my body atrophy bit by bit. Deciding to start surfing was an impulsive decision, a desperate resolve to feel alive, a raging against the dying of the light. I wanted to know I was still capable of trying new activities, enjoying new hobbies, and learning new skills that served no practical or professional purpose, that were purely for personal amusement. A surfboard, at any rate, isn’t the worst purchase one can make during a midlife crisis. It could’ve been a Harley-Davidson. Or hair plugs.
Realizing I would need some help to get started, I signed up for a group surfing lesson offered by a small company operating on Santa Monica State Beach. Three Korean girls—the oldest was probably 20—and I mimicked the instructor as he demonstrated how to stand upright on our rental boards, where to position our feet, and how to keep our balance by crouching low. As we lay flat on our boards, the instructor stood in the shallow surf behind us and gave us each a firm push, and then we had five seconds to stand and ride the frothy whitewater back to shore. After a half dozen attempts, I more or less got the hang of it and managed to stand up on the board. Hey, look at me, I’m surfing! The Korean girls also got up a few times, and they giggled and clapped, and we all congratulated one another as well as our language barrier would allow. But I couldn’t help feeling like I was learning to ride a bike with someone holding onto the seat. This wasn’t surfing; this was playtime. If I was truly serious about surfing, and not just splashing around in the water with beginners half my age, I needed to know more than just the basics.
GOING SOLO
The day after my group lesson, I bought a surfboard from an online retailer—a nine-foot-long soft-top foam board. It arrived on my doorstep in a coffin-size box, fins and board leash included. I drove to Santa Monica the next day to break it in—or, rather, to be broken by it. Over two hours, I spent a total of maybe 20 seconds atop the board itself. Very little “surfing” happened. Though I deliberately chose a beach where the waves are small, still I was assaulted, bombarded, and whacked and smacked mercilessly by wave after wave. The surfboard became a weapon, rocketing up into the sky only to come hurtling back down just inches from my head. Seaweed wrapped like briny rope around my toes. My eyes stung from the salt. I began to question and regret whatever rash decisions had led me out there. Maybe it’s not too late to buy that Harley.
This article appears in Issue 27 of Alta Journal.
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And yet, only days after my inauspicious solo-surfing debut, I found myself returning to the beach, where I once again got knocked every which way but loose. And then I returned again the next week—and twice more the week after that. But after making only negligible improvements, if any, over the next few weeks, I accepted that I would benefit from more instruction. This time, however, it would be a private lesson, so I wouldn’t again feel like an old man at a playground with children. I booked a one-on-one with Southern California–based Sofly Surf School, a Black-owned-and-operated business. As a Black person learning a predominantly white sport, I found it meaningful to meet and learn from another Black surfer. I hoped it would make me feel more at ease, and thus more confident on the waves.
I met Rico Blevins at Venice Beach, just south of the pier. Blevins is 29, with long dreadlocks and a scruffy beard. He observed my pop-up (“Pretty good!” he said) and led me through some quick stretches, and then we paddled out. Up until then, I’d mostly been floating along comfortably on whitewater, but Blevins wanted to show me how to catch green, or unbroken, waves. It didn’t go well. I was not more confident on the waves. Despite his best efforts and chronic admonitions—“Bring your feet together as you paddle,” “Lean back when you feel the wave,” “Look ahead, not down”—I nose-dived, tumbled, and turned underwater cartwheels for the next 90 minutes.
At the end of our session, as we debriefed back on the beach, Blevins generously and encouragingly told me that the waves weren’t great that day and that I had good form. I felt like I could hear him thinking, Maybe this isn’t for you, old man. But before we parted ways, he said I was welcome anytime to join him and a crew of other Black surfers at their go-to spot in Huntington Beach. I told him I would love to—after I learned to surf better. I’m not trying to be the embarrassing uncle, struggling to keep up with all the youngbloods at the club.
BARBARIAN DAYS
Surfing has been, far and away, the most difficult and frustrating thing I’ve ever attempted to learn. Some of this owes to what might be a steeper learning curve than with many other sports, but I can’t ignore that much of it has to do with my age. After all, I’ve seen literal children—who might’ve learned to walk upright only the week before—catching green waves and making perfectly executed bottom turns. Age ain’t nothing but a number until you’re gasping for breath after 20 solid minutes of physical exertion. But I wasn’t yet ready to give up.
I returned to Santa Monica State Beach two weeks after my humbling session with Blevins. I went alone, not ready to again disgrace myself in front of someone else. I did a few cursory stretches on the beach, strapped on my board leash, and walked warily into the surf, as though I were walking unarmed into enemy territory. When the water came up to my knees, I plopped onto the board and paddled out beyond the break. I bobbed on the water, scanning the surface, waiting for the right wave to present itself. I attempted to catch a too-large wave, only to immediately be knocked over and sent tumbling. I clambered onto my board, paddled back, waited, tried again, and got knocked down again, spitting up salt water and already out of breath.
Finally, after my third or fourth wipeout, as I floated on my board and wondered how much longer until I packed it in, I looked out and saw the form of what might build into a perfect wave. I spun around and began paddling for my life, and just as I felt the wave nudging me forward, I arched my back, looked ahead, popped up, and landed on my feet. The wave rolled underneath my board, gently shepherding me along. It was like riding a cloud. I didn’t attempt anything fancy—no cutbacks or carving or anything like that—just rode that roller slow and steady, straight on back to the shore. I hopped off my board, fell on my back on the beach, and let out a long, deep breath.
I was unable to catch any more waves that day, but it didn’t matter. I’d caught one. Next time, I’ll catch two.
Notwithstanding the challenges that come with learning to surf, it’s a thrill to feel yourself pushing beyond your usual level of comfort, familiarity, and safety. To allow yourself permission to fail. To feel like you are part of the earth, rather than a mere inhabitant. In a world dominated by technology, where we spend an almost unimaginable number of hours each day staring into screens, scrolling and swiping, it is more important than ever to explore activities that pull us away from our phones, that enliven us rather than enrage us, activities in which the most crucial thing you need to remember is to “look ahead, not down.”
Surfing legend Laird Hamilton once said, “We’re all equal before a wave.” While this might be read as naïve and hackneyed—something you might see on an inspirational poster hanging in your bro’s dorm room—I understand it as both invitation and caution. Regardless of race, age, religion, economic stability, or political affiliation, we are all on a level playing field and we are all equally at mortal risk when confronted by the power and indifference of an ocean wave.
The ocean has become a place in which I go to escape from the anxieties, worries, and distractions of modern life. I may no longer be young, and I may not be naturally adept, but each time I drop my board in the water, paddle out, get knocked down by the first big wave, come back up for air, and do it all over again is a personal victory against apathy, against the resignation of becoming old and dull. Surfing is, most of all, about slowly becoming better—and maybe slowly becoming better is what getting older is all about.•
Santi Elijah Holley is an award-winning journalist and the author of An Amerikan Family: The Shakurs and the Nation They Created. He is a regular contributor to Alta Journal.
