surfers would say, the same small waves rise up and break in gentle rolls before flattening out, regrouping, and breaking again near the shore where the boogie boarders wait.
“ Shannon? Joe?” the rail thin, deeply tanned man says in heavily Spanish accented English.
“ Si,” Shannon replies.
The man immediately switches to Spanish. Costa Rican Spanish. Shannon carries on with him for a minute or two. When they are done the man turns to me.
“ No habla,” I manage.
Dennis reverts to his heavily accented English. While thin, his back and shoulders and core are well muscled with the long flat lean muscles of a surfer who apparently only eats raw meat.
We start our lesson lying in the sand. He draws the outline of a surf board and we practice popping up. My Marine father would recognize these as burpees. Football players would see them as up-downs, but only the up part.
Shannon is very agile, easily popping up and landing on the sand in a crouch on both feet. I am not quite as agile so Dennis shows me a different way, a slower pop. Already my knees are sending out their advance warning of tomorrow’s protests and pains and recalling the too long run from earlier in the week.
Dennis leads us out to the shore break, the ‘whitewater’ he calls it. We will practice here first before paddling out to the more distant row of rollers and breakers. Dennis wades out with us and asks me to lie down on the board. He will push the board at the right time and yell paddle paddle paddle UP!
The board moves with the wave and becomes stable as it accelerates. I start to rise and am momentarily nearly on my feet before wobbling left and splashing into the sea. Though it was only for a moment, I was nearly almost surfing, and it was fun. I felt the connection with the ocean in a way that all my runs and all my swims have not provided. The ocean was working for me, accelerating me, making my board stable, allowing me a moment on the wave and in the wave. I am hooked.
I collect my surfboard and wade out to where Dennis and Shannon are waiting for just the right wave.
She is short, maybe five feet tall, and she weighs next to nothing. Except for those running muscles and those digging muscles. So she has a small surfboard that catches the small wave with Dennis barely providing any push. She paddles and is up balancing in a crouch, radiating something that I cannot describe just before she steps off into the shallow surf.
“ She is a natural,” Dennis says.
“ Si,” I answer.
“ Y mas bonita,” he adds.
“ Si,” I answer again, understanding the tone and meaning attached to his look more than the actual spoken words.
After a few more times in the white water, Dennis decides we are ready to paddle out. Paddling out is very hard. Mas dificile. Dennis has to push us through the small surf and breakers to get to the outside, to get us through the blender. I understand the long flat leanness of surfers after just one trip through the blender.
We lay on our boards while Dennis casually straddles his. Dennis explains how he will push the board and how we should paddle paddle paddle then pop up but stay low.
“ Stay low,” he reminds me. “If you stand up too high you will crash,” he says.
‘ Crash.’ Not fall in or fall off or wipe out. He says I will ‘crash’. It is an interesting choice of words.
Shannon is ready and Dennis picks out a wave for her. She paddles, he pushes, she paddles and she is up and then instantly down in the large wave. The surfboard flips high in the air. The wave holds her down for one second, and then another. Just as Dennis tenses to rush into the blender she pops up, grabs her board, gives a thumbs up and starts paddling towards us.
“ Stay low,” he shouts to Shannon.
“ Stay low,” he tells me.
“ Get ready. Paddle paddle paddle UP!”
I feel the wave catch the board. It becomes stable as it accelerates. I place my palms on the board, rise up to cobra, and pop. I
“ Shannon? Joe?” the rail thin, deeply tanned man says in heavily Spanish accented English.
“ Si,” Shannon replies.
The man immediately switches to Spanish. Costa Rican Spanish. Shannon carries on with him for a minute or two. When they are done the man turns to me.
“ No habla,” I manage.
Dennis reverts to his heavily accented English. While thin, his back and shoulders and core are well muscled with the long flat lean muscles of a surfer who apparently only eats raw meat.
We start our lesson lying in the sand. He draws the outline of a surf board and we practice popping up. My Marine father would recognize these as burpees. Football players would see them as up-downs, but only the up part.
Shannon is very agile, easily popping up and landing on the sand in a crouch on both feet. I am not quite as agile so Dennis shows me a different way, a slower pop. Already my knees are sending out their advance warning of tomorrow’s protests and pains and recalling the too long run from earlier in the week.
Dennis leads us out to the shore break, the ‘whitewater’ he calls it. We will practice here first before paddling out to the more distant row of rollers and breakers. Dennis wades out with us and asks me to lie down on the board. He will push the board at the right time and yell paddle paddle paddle UP!
The board moves with the wave and becomes stable as it accelerates. I start to rise and am momentarily nearly on my feet before wobbling left and splashing into the sea. Though it was only for a moment, I was nearly almost surfing, and it was fun. I felt the connection with the ocean in a way that all my runs and all my swims have not provided. The ocean was working for me, accelerating me, making my board stable, allowing me a moment on the wave and in the wave. I am hooked.
I collect my surfboard and wade out to where Dennis and Shannon are waiting for just the right wave.
She is short, maybe five feet tall, and she weighs next to nothing. Except for those running muscles and those digging muscles. So she has a small surfboard that catches the small wave with Dennis barely providing any push. She paddles and is up balancing in a crouch, radiating something that I cannot describe just before she steps off into the shallow surf.
“ She is a natural,” Dennis says.
“ Si,” I answer.
“ Y mas bonita,” he adds.
“ Si,” I answer again, understanding the tone and meaning attached to his look more than the actual spoken words.
After a few more times in the white water, Dennis decides we are ready to paddle out. Paddling out is very hard. Mas dificile. Dennis has to push us through the small surf and breakers to get to the outside, to get us through the blender. I understand the long flat leanness of surfers after just one trip through the blender.
We lay on our boards while Dennis casually straddles his. Dennis explains how he will push the board and how we should paddle paddle paddle then pop up but stay low.
“ Stay low,” he reminds me. “If you stand up too high you will crash,” he says.
‘ Crash.’ Not fall in or fall off or wipe out. He says I will ‘crash’. It is an interesting choice of words.
Shannon is ready and Dennis picks out a wave for her. She paddles, he pushes, she paddles and she is up and then instantly down in the large wave. The surfboard flips high in the air. The wave holds her down for one second, and then another. Just as Dennis tenses to rush into the blender she pops up, grabs her board, gives a thumbs up and starts paddling towards us.
“ Stay low,” he shouts to Shannon.
“ Stay low,” he tells me.
“ Get ready. Paddle paddle paddle UP!”
I feel the wave catch the board. It becomes stable as it accelerates. I place my palms on the board, rise up to cobra, and pop. I
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