I'm Still Standing

I can't sit on a beach for entertainment and I can't afford to start drinking in the morning, so today I'll learn to surf. In the beach front surf shop shack -slash- cocktail bar, I'm promised that if I can't stand up in the hour lesson, I won't pay, but for no good reason, I'm quitely confident that I'll get up without too much trouble.


In the back of the shack, a few of the local surfers killing time in a thickening scent of weed. I'm given a red Neoprene t-shirt that reads "Instructor", which I'm quite fond of. Then I'm given my board for the session. It's less impressive than the shirt. It's a hefty-looking, wide and thin yellow thing. It's essentially a big plastic door, with a rubber grip surface on one side and a set of fins on the reverse.


The land lesson is little more than five minutes of a single demonstration of how to get up, and five attempts before I've gotten the foot placement about right.


Once in the water, that land lesson is quickly forgotten. My Peruvian instructor, David, is wearing a set of fins and has a hold on the back of the board so he can help paddle me around.


Fifty metres out, we're parked and waiting for my first wave. "This is your wave", I'm told, despite only a basic grasp of English. My wave comes and goes before I've even understood when I'm meant to get up on this thing.

Take two, and I'm up and away. This is nice. Look at me, mum. As the wave fades, I'm still standing and turn to find David is still hanging on to the board. Damn. I wonder how much of that was me. A few waves later, I turn expecting to see David, but he's nowhere to be seen. I'm pretty pleased with myself.

I've got a nose, throat, and some proportion of my lungs soaked in salt water, but apparently I can surf.