A Dot in the Ocean

Growing up on an island, the ocean was never far. I caught glimpses of it on the drive to school, it was a family tradition to haul home live lobster to boil and then devour on the rocky coast, and the smell of salt-doused wind and the sound of seagulls reminded me of home. Sometimes, on summer afternoons, I would dive into the icy waters, shooting back out a few moments later. I lived by the ocean but without spending time in it—understanding it, being scared by it, learning to respect it—I always felt distanced from the endless stretch of blue that surrounded me.    

When the waves would swell, I’d watch surfers take to the sea and float on the water, studying the horizon. I’d squint at how they’d rise with a wave, sometimes tumbling into the white water, sometimes gliding far along the shore. I wanted to do that. I wanted to be a tiny dot in the ocean. 

A few days ago, I bought the board. I won’t be back on this island forever so I figured I might as well fulfill that childhood dream while I still can. On the first day in the water, alone, I felt the thrill of being a beginner again, knowing nothing, and scrambling to figure it all out. (I might have even referred to the board’s fins as “rudders” while at the surf shop.) When I emerged back onto the beach, triceps burning and slightly dizzy from all the waves that tossed me overboard, I knew that this was the start of a new adventure, not just of learning how to ride waves, but of becoming a new version of myself—someone I always wanted to be. Someone who knows the ocean.