Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sign up for surfing lessons.  I found myself growing grim about the mouth.  It wasn’t necessarily a dark November in my soul, more like a slightly rainy April.  Jamaica Plain doesn’t feature any coffin warehouses and people don’t generally wear hats as commonly as they used to, so the urge to knock one off of someone’s head isn’t that great.  Cato threw himself on his sword.  I threw myself on a surf board.  We are not the same.

All right.  The Moby Dick paraphrasing portion of the broadcast is now done.  I’ve discovered that if you paraphrase Moby Dick, people think you are smart.  I’ve made a career of tricking people into believing I’m intelligent.

Notwithstanding, I am not here to do any literary criticism.  I am here though to talk about my recent water adventures and further, my snow adventures, of which long time blog readers will know there are a multitude detailed here on these pages.  But today we will be discussing sea adventures and tangentially snow adventures, but mostly water adventures.

Like Ishmael, I have always been naturally drawn to the sea.  The two places that shaped me in my life, New York and Boston are both great port cites.  There’s just one thing about the water here.  It’s cold.  Very very very cold.  So draw me in, it does not.  And I’ve always regretted that.  I found a way to slide around on the snow that is at times abundant here, but the water I have yet to conquer.  That is until recently.

To paraphrase an intellectual hero of mine, Milo the Chonk, English accented internet cat, she was heartbroken and broke.  Just where I wanted her.  Well, earlier in the summer, the inevitable troubles of life yet again encroached upon the peaceful expanse of my existence and I went to where we all go now when that happens.  The sea.  No.  Like I said.  Don’t call me Ishmael.  I went to Instagram, home of talking cats, ice restocks, foreboding signs of the fall of the empire and as luck would have it, adds for surfing lessons.  In New England.  Yes.  New England.

As all great stories begin, I plunked down the shekels from my purse and off I went to the sea to prove my mettle against it.  Well, first we had to put our wet suits on, which let me tell you, was really no fun at all whatsoever.  Whatsoever.  Did I mention we were in New Hampshire and it was raining?  Winter surfing.  We had a little practice session on the beach before we got going.  Push and pop up.  And off we went into the water.  Intrepid wanderers, the lot of us.

The wet suits were thick so we didn’t feel the cold.  As is my way, I managed to get onto the surf board backwards.  As is my way.  I manage to somehow end up backwards on everything.  But somewhere in the middle of it, I was struck by this feeling that this is as fun as skiing.  We’re there splashing around in that water, just having the best time.

The first time out I carpooled with another local surfer.  I’m ok with driving.  Not like super happy with it, but ok with it but it was a long drive, early in the morning on an unfamiliar highway.  Halfway through the surfing class, we took a break.  I gathered around the vehicle we had taken with my bulging bag of snacks and sundry other things.  We stood and laughed at the magnificent time we were having.  That feeling.  That feeling you can’t capture.  Not the during, but the after.  

After a couple of hours in the water, my lingering skiing shoulder injury started to act up, so I exited the water and laid down on the beach with my surfboard sort of tied to me.  I laid back and closed my eyes and just enjoyed the sound of the surf.  That feeling.  Again, that feeling.

Was I tired after all of this?  Yes.  Were my arms sore.  Yes.  Did I sign up to do it again, almost immediately?  Your are damn right I did.

This time, we were in Nahant Beach.  Now to backtrack here for one second, New England never ceases to amaze me and Nahant, Nahant amazed me.  Yeah, I’ve seen more beautiful beaches in my life, but my God.  This beautiful place just a (relatively) short drive from my house.

Now things can be disappointing when you do them a second time.  Not always, but they can be somewhat disappointing the second time you do them and I thought this would be true for the surfing outing.  The first time was amazing.  I bet the second time wouldn’t be as amazing.  Or disappointing.  Or just not as fun.

But somehow, it was ever better the second time around.  Crazy.  This time, the water was colder.  We weren’t wearing any booties or anything, so we got hit by the water.  The surfing instructor was hilarious.  And I stood up on the surfboard multiple times.  My fellow surfing instruction group mates wanted to get out of the water early, but me, water baby, would have stayed in a lot longer.  As we finished our day in the water, the lot of us headed up the beach to put our surf boards away.  I was struck by something.  That feeling.  That feeling struck me again. 

It wouldn’t be a post without at least a few photos.  Here’s one of me on the day:

As you can see, my smile is rather big and in an incredible turn of events, I concentrated on surfing, rather than taking pictures. I know. CRAZY. BUT, I do have some pictures I’ve taken over the years of other people surfing.