In Search of Balance

I am not someone that necessarily possesses a lot of natural grace. I am good at a great many things. I speak more than one language. I can read a full size novel in a few hours. I live and breath organization. Kids tend to like me. I run a school. It’s not that I am trying to disparage myself. In fact, I am anything but modest. 

But, for as long as I can remember,  I have lacked eye hand coordination. By one, when I was talking up a storm, but still hadn’t bothered to get up to walk anywhere, my mother took me the doctor. He told her, “Don’t worry, she’ll walk by her wedding.” Considering I am still not married, that may not have been the best advice.  

When I still wasn’t walking months later, she brought me back, convinced there was something wrong with me. First, he told her that maybe I had nowhere to go; then he said maybe my legs were too fat (thanks dad for reminding me), but when that didn't work, he told her to bribe me and bribe me she did – with a new pair of shoes. So, eventually I walked. 

These days, it would take a heck of a lot more than new shoes to get me to go somewhere if I wasn't interested. 

 In kindergarten, the teachers had a serious talk with my mother about whether to repeat me as I could not successfully manage my scissors. Luckily my mother couldn’t manage them either and dismissed that concern, and off I went to first grade. 

My parents believed firmly that my brother, Ross, and I would benefit from a wide variety of sports and extra curricular activities. So off we went to t ball, soccer, tumbling, acrobatics (isn’t that the same thing?), jazz, tap, ballet. You name it – we played it, took it, participated in it. Our Saturdays were a smorgasbord of physical activities on the off chance that one of us was a natural athlete and also to ensure we were getting the most out of our childhood.

What I remember about all of these sports and athletic endeavors (apart from my brother laying down in the outfield in baseball and a crazy mom yelling at her daughter that she wouldn’t get ToysRUs if she didn’t score in soccer) is that I sucked. I know that’s not a nice word. But I call it as I see it. Sure I shuffled off to Buffalo in tap dance and I did the somersault in gymnastics, but I was just short of an embarrassment in pretty much anything physical. 

Of course,  what I lacked in grace and natural ability, I made up for in enthusiasm. I simply didn’t care that I was the worst. I persevered even through and in spite of my peers’ laughter and at times, the instructor’s. I distinctly remember taking tennis lessons with Larry at the JCC – my mother hoping against all odds it would introduce me to a “nice Jewish boy” that I could marry (Yes I was in 5th grade, but Jewish mothers plan – it’s what they do.) Anyway, after my third lesson – we had been learning backhand, Larry took my mom aside and said, “Maybe tennis is not the sport for her. . .” 

My mother was undeterred and later in life so was I. . . 

Sure, I didn’t make the cheerleading squad (thank god in retrospect) even though my two best friends did; I didn’t make the Volleyball team and had trouble marching and playing my cymbals to the beat in band. But still I persevered. I had learned to ride a bike somehow – it must not be that hard, and even though I almost failed home ec in 9th grade with a set of terrible sweatpants, I did become part of the field hockey, lacross and swim team. Yes, it’s true none of them have try outs and I didn’t letter till I was a senior, but details details. 

My elegance has not improved over the years. Passing time has made me less flexible, and increasingly more scared - and despite the fact that I have been a waitress and done marathons, triathlons and open water swims; balance, coordination and grace eludes me. 

I have been voted most likely to trip over my own feet by all of my friends.  David is quick to point out uneven pavement as we walk through the city, knowing that any change could potentially provoke a fall or crash on any given day of the week. 

I am, as my mother would have said, a klutz. And that’s ok with me. 

But sometimes, it stops me. It stops me from riding single track on the mountain bike. It stops me from getting on the scooter or snowboard. Or maybe it’s not the lack of grace. Maybe it’s fear. 

Fear of dying. Fear of falling. Fear of hurting myself. Fear . . .fear of failing. 

So today I took a leap. I went surfing. It’s not that I have never been before. Keith had taken me a few times in New Jersey when we were young and very little  scared me. But it was cold and running was easier. I went once or twice during the two years I lived in San Diego. But it was cold and running was easier. And I think I even went once in Costa Rica – it was not cold then, but I was still terrible. 

I sat on the beach watching all those surfers – men and women – girls and boys sitting on their boards. “Wait for the set, ohmm.”  I could hear  Ross repeating Keith’s mantra. I knew I would regret not doing it. 

"What’s the worst that could happen,” I thought (besides a board knocking me unconscious, the fin ripping open a vein and me drowning to death). So to appease my myriad fears and hiatus of 10 years of not surfing, I took a lesson. I figured that way someone would see my die and be obligated to report back to my family.

Surfing was everything I remembered and imagined. I looked dorky in the rash guard, the board was ginomorous and I felt like an old lady with a bunch of teenagers at a party where they’re like “uh grandma, what are you doing here?” But we practiced standing up on the sand and I remembered doing it like I remember riding a bike even after a few months of not riding. 

And then we paddled out. The waves were small. There was an off shore breeze. I had a board twice my size. I was told this was all in my favor. But paddling a surfboard has nothing to do with swimming. I am a good swimmer. I can swim for hours. But I can not paddle for hours. In less than 10 minutes, my arms were screaming at me, and I was out of breath. We got out the line up and Aka said, “ready or rest?” Before I could get rest out of my mouth, he yelled “READY! Paddle, paddle, paddle!” 

And so I did. I paddled and paddled but apparently not that hard, because then I felt a push from behind and heard him yell, “up!” And so I tried to get up. Right foot first, left foot front, wide stance. But yeah, it was way easier on the sand, and as I attempted to catch my balance, I saw a kid about 11 heading right for my board. He dropped off and I fell backwards. 

And out I went again. Paddle, paddle, paddle, back to the line up and then GO! PLOP. The second time as I popped up, I turned around to see a huge wave breaking right on my head. I ducked under and felt the board pull my ankle sharply. I came up for air to see another one. And then another one. Seven waves later, I climbed back on the board, panting and paddled back out. 

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “but then you caught a wave and it was magical.” Uh, yeah, no. This isn’t Hollywood. 

I stayed out another hour and a half. I tried to catch a dozen or more waves. I almost stood on four of them and my falls were epic. I know – there was a photographer that insisted on showing me the 56 shots he took of me flying off my board with his very telephoto lens. 

I was the antithesis of grace. I was Melissa McCarthy in Tammy. I was a giraffe attempting to dance. 

And after being caught in three more sets of seven waves pummeling me and leaving me breathless, I said to Aka, enough. 

"One more wave Jen.” 

"One more wave.” I repeated back hoping this wasn’t the wave where I became paralyzed from the neck down. 

“Rest first.” He smiled and gestured out to the line up where surfers sat on their boards staring out into the horizons. “It’s not just about catching the waves.” He said and took off to catch the next wave. He stood like it was part of his DNA, all grace and elegance and ran his hand along the inside of the wave. I flopped belly down on my board and rested my head. The sun was warm. The water was warm. I had no grace. 

I caught my last wave like the other twelve, terribly – my feet too close together, my hands flailing above me uselessly and the board shooting out in front of me. I likely would not be invited to Mavericks this year. 

I stumbled out of the water, Aka held out his hand and slapped mine in a high five, “You think too much. You are too scared. You can do it.” “I have always thought too much,”  I thought and “he has known me three seconds.”

I took off the leash and put the giant board back on the rack. Every muscle in my arms and back screamed. My mouth tasted like salt and my eyes stung. “The surfers rinse off here,” Aka pointed to an outdoor shower and I nodded. “Go ahead,” he laughed. “You surfed.” 

I surfed. Grace or not. Fear or not. I paddled out and surfed. (Unless you count that I did’t actually fully stand up and then maybe you want to call it something else.) 

I likely will not now become a surfer, or a mountain biker or a snowboarder, but the next time, Fear comes along to tell me all the reason I can’t, I will look him square in the eyes, and remind him I surfed.