Even as I've gotten older, I've never forgotten my roots. Growing up in Hawaii, I was pretty much just another skinny kid. I didn't care much for sports. Until I began to surf. Here I am at 8 years of age.
It was the year I learned how to surf. Like everyone else who grew up in Kailua, I taught myself. My first surfboard was a piece of junk. Someone sold it to me for a measly 10 bucks. Its fiberglass nose was all busted in. But I didn't care.
Transition to my high school and college years. Still basically a skinny guy, but one who now had a really, really sick custom-shaped board.
Where didn't I surf with this yellow gem? I rode every wave I could.
Finally, here's me at age 72. I am about to drive to Virginia Beach to catch a few.
For some reason, I have always loved surfing. The successful drop-ins. The timing of the sets. The stinging in the eyes. Flat days with long lulls. Watching the horizon. Smelling the wax. Quick dips below the surface. Watching sea life. The physical and mental benefits. The endless tubes. No phones. No worries. No distractions. Catching a wave is like climbing a mountain and then savoring a good cup of coffee at the top.
From the very first time I felt a tiny swell pick me up and push me, I knew that I would spend much of my life chasing that feeling over and over again. Occasionally, while driving 3.5 hours to Virginia Beach only to have to put on my wetsuit in miserably cold weather, I think to myself, "This is awful, man. Why do I do this? You need a new hobby, dude." By the time I'm paddling out, it's not even a question.
As corny as it sounds, surfing is a spiritual experience. I feel overwhelmed, overjoyed, and everything in between.
Once a surfer, always a surfer, I guess.