The Burnout(69)

I’m out at sea, beyond where the waves break, sitting on my board, feeling the familiar motion of the sea rising and falling beneath me, staring at the horizon. Everything else in the world has stopped existing. All I’m focused on is the waves. That’s all there is. Waves, only waves.

Finn can surf better than me. A lot better. A few times we’ve gone for the same wave, and he’s ridden smoothly onto the beach, whereas I’ve timed it badly or didn’t manage to get up on my board. Or rolled over and over in the kind of unstoppable wipeout that leaves you spread-eagled and gasping in the shallows.

But I’m not giving up. I keep hearing Terry’s voice: Infinite waves. Infinite chances. You can’t dwell or think about what might have been. There’s always another wave. Although you have to be looking the right way to see it.

“Look for the waves!” he used to bellow at us, when we were too busy chatting or moaning about the water up our noses to focus on the horizon. “Look the right way! Look for the waves or you won’t catch them!”

That’s what I wasn’t doing in my life. I needed to look the right way, away from my screens, my emails, my narrow life, my limitations. I need to look to the horizon, to see the opportunities rising and paddle toward them. And again I hear Terry’s voice, hoarse with exasperation: Don’t just sit there—paddle! Paddle hard! Harder!

Finn is up on his board again, and I watch him ride into shore, feet firmly planted, legs powerful and secure. He’s finding waves I’m completely missing. Just for a moment I feel a kind of crushing failure, but then I give myself a Terry-like pep talk. Finn last surfed two years ago in the Canaries, he told me as I got my board. Whereas I haven’t surfed for, what, a decade?

There’s a telltale bump looming on the horizon, and I squint, trying to assess it. So much of surfing is judgment. It’s experience. It’s reading the waves. I haven’t sat on a board scanning the horizon for years. But there must be a residual muscle memory in my brain, because it’s slowly coming back to me. The way the waves break and fall. Bits of surf slang I once knew. Above all, I’m remembering the tricks the sea plays. The phony, deceptive non-waves, which seem to build, then disappear. As opposed to the strong, powerful, genuine swells that seem to come from nothing but were there all along.

Because that’s the other thing: It’s not enough to be able to read the waves; you have to have courage and timing. The courage to go for a wave. The timing to know when to go for it.

The distant bump I was tracking has died away, but now I can see a new one rising. A real possibility. There’s always hope out there on the horizon. Which is why surfing is obsessive. It’s addictive. I’d forgotten. I’ve lost track of time; I’ve forgotten every other thing in my life. I have to catch a wave, and nothing else matters. I already know that when I go to bed tonight, when I close my eyes, all I’ll see is endless waves.

OK. The second bump on the horizon was real. It’s coming, it’s a wave, it’s moving fast, and without even knowing I’m going to react, I start paddling. My entire body is focused on the task. My muscles are already burning, but they need to work faster, and now the water is rising beneath me and I’m pushing with all my might, cursing myself for not visiting the gym every morning, but … I’m there. Yes! Somehow I’m on my feet, my back protesting, then I’m straightening up and it’s happening! I caught it!

Oh my God, I’m flying. I’m in heaven. My board is skimming so fast over the water, I can’t breathe. My feet are planted skew-whiff and I wouldn’t get any points for style, but I’m doing it, I’m riding the wave.… And now I’m reaching the shore, still upright, breathless, an ecstatic smile plastered across my face.

I hop off my board and pick it up, then beam at Finn, who is whooping on the sand.

“High five!” He slaps my hand, then grasps it, just like Terry.

“I did it!”

I’m floating with elation. I flew over the sea. I defied gravity, the elements, and my own muscles. All of them. Right now I feel like all I ever want to do in life is fly over the sea, again and again and again.

I totally get why people give up their regular lives to do this.

“Have you ever thought of dropping out of your job to surf all day?” I say impulsively to Finn. “Because …” I spread my arms around at the waves, the beach, the view. “I mean …”

“Every time I surf.” He grins back. “I have a short but perfectly formed fantasy in which surfing is my life. Then reality hits.”

“Reality.” I roll my eyes.

“But it doesn’t need to hit yet. We can be surf dudes all afternoon. Bro.” He high-fives me again and I laugh.

“Bro.”

“The ride is it.”

“The ride is it!”

And then we both head back into the foaming, thrilling water with our boards. Right now I never, ever, want to stop.


At last I’m too exhausted to carry on. I stand on the sand, panting after my last thrilling ride, watching as Finn hoists his board under his arm and comes over to me. Water is dripping from his hair onto his face, and his grin is infectious.

“I’m done,” I say.

“Me too,” he agrees. “We can come out again tomorrow, maybe. Look, this place is popular.” He jerks his head toward the other surfers who have appeared, farther down the beach from us. There are two teenage boys, a woman of indeterminate age, and a wizened-looking guy who’s probably far younger than he seems. The woman lifts a hand in greeting as she sees us looking over, and I wave back.