I started this project as half of what I thought was a hot, happy, surfing couple. You know, chasing waves and dreams together—unstoppable, unshakable. Well, as if to illustrate my theory that surfing represents in miniature, life as a whole, this project changed before it even began.
It’s funny how things work out.
When Brad and I got together three years ago, I had never met a surfer. I didn’t know what I was in for. For two years, surfing was the ‘other woman,’ a constant source of jealousy and pain. I spent two years jealous of the ocean (ridiculous, right?). Then, one day in New Smyrna I rented a board and got in the water. From that day forward, surfing ceased to be the other woman and became, instead, my mistress as well. I haven’t been jealous of the ocean since. That was just over a year ago.
I’ll spare you the ‘happy couple montage’ sequence and simply say: I was happy. I was in love with Brad, with surfing and with the woman I was discovering myself to be. Inner conflict ceased and confidence bubbled up to fill the void. He taught me how to read waves and spaghetti models, we traveled, we taught my son to love the ocean. Then he left.
Tides change, right? So now rather than chronicling the joy and the challenge of learning to surf, guided by the man I love, tousled five year old in tow, this blog will tell the story of a single ‘mom-grom’ learning how to hold her own in the line-up, so to speak, chasing swell alone.
I know that even though today I feel like I am caught on the inside, taking it on the head, I know that soon enough I’ll break out the back into the silence and the stillness of possibility.
A set will come. A set will come for me.