Sort of like being in a washing machine. That’s how I’ve imagined surfing would feel. It’s one of those things I’ve always wanted to try, yet always wanted to leave to the professionals. There’s a definite charm, a sense of freedom, but also quite a lot of, well, water!
I spent a lot of time watching the surfers on holiday in Lanzarote, much of it in awe. The immense power of cascading walls of water, and the people attempting to tame them. I could see why they did it. When they catch that perfect wave, they’re free men, just for a moment. Mother nature gives them that much, before crashing down around them.
I see a surfer risk it all on one giant wave. He stands, momentarily, before he is overpowered. Anxiously I wait to see him emerge, eventually bobbing in the wake like a piece of driftwood. He’s undeterred. He fights the tide to get back out to the relentless waves, to give it one more shot. The ocean rises up, it’s enormous. He commits, no backing out now. I find myself holding my breath as he rises to his feet, holding on all the way in towards the shoreline. When he returns from the sea, exhausted, I ask him if that was fun. His smile answers my question.