How I (Never) Learned to Surf

Y’all, this is my best story, and I hate to give it away for free. Suffice it to say, you’re getting a bargain here. Considerate it your early Christmas present, a gift nearly as valuable as a shattered surfboard.

The summer I was fifteen, I wanted to learn how to surf. All the other neighborhood kids surfed, and since I lived at the beach, it seemed like a requirement. I liked swimming and bodyboarding, why not surfing?

My step-dad had two boards, relics of the 70s: The Fish, short and wide with a split tail, and The Nomad, 6ft tall and narrow with one long fin. Neither of them was good for learning to surf.

But I tried anyway, tried and failed. What I needed, I was sure, was a better board.

I started saving my pay from bussing tables. Once I had a hundred dollars, I put out word that I was looking for a surfboard, and a friend brought over his buddy with one to sell. It was perfect, about 7’6,” great condition, 100 bucks; I bought it on the spot.

Later that day, my friend came back to tell me his buddy had stolen that board from a kid two houses down the street.

I couldn’t use that board. If the neighbor saw me, who knows what consequences might ensue. Now, so many years later, I’m aware of the right thing to do, but it never occurred to me at fifteen.

I had my friend bring his buddy back that same day, under false pretenses. The surfboard thief was a short kid, a year or two younger than the rest of us, nicknamed Little Jim.

I demanded he return my money and take the stolen board. He refused. We argued on my stepdad’s porch, no adults in sight.

I charged him, knocked him to the ground, sat on top of him, and punched him until he agreed to give me back the hundred bucks. I didn’t hurt him, but realizing he wasn’t going to win, because he was little, Little Jim returned my money. After that, we were fast friends.

But I still had no surfboard, not one I could use. I waxed the Fish and the Nomad, yearning for something better. I subscribed to Wahine and Surfer magazines, taping their pictures on my bedroom walls – one day, that would be me.

No more affordable boards came my way, so that Christmas I asked for a surfboard. My dad bought me one from the pawn shop. It was about 6 1/2 feet long, somewhat yellowed with time, but it was lighter weight than the Nomad, longer than the Fish, and more modern. I loved it.

What I didn’t have was a wetsuit, and it was January at the NC coast. No worries.

I had a plan, but I didn’t want anyone to see me, so I waited until it started to get dark. I put on several layers of clothes: multiple socks, two pairs of pants, two long shirts, and a sweatshirt. My dad lived beside a pier, and I cut through the pier trailer park to the beach, new board under my arm.

The waves were big. Big waves mean good surfing, right? The whitecaps churned as the sky darkened. There wasn’t a soul on the beach, on the pier, or in the water. It was nighttime in January; I was alone. No one knew where I was. Perfect.

I fought the waves until I was far enough out to catch one, the water immediately soaking through my layers of clothes, which turned heavy, very cold, and hard to maneuver in. This will not surprise you, smart reader, like it did me.

I caught a wave, attempted to stand, ended up on my knees, and rode it all the way to shore, where I hit the beach, and the board broke completely in half.

There being no other choice, I picked up the two pieces of surfboard and tucked one under each arm, walking home with clothes dripping and drooping, as broken as my board, hoping no one saw me.

My brother was furious that I broke the new board before he got a chance to use it, but again, no worries. My father said he could fix it.

He took a rectangular street sign, God only knows where he got that, and attached it to the back of the board, coating the entire middle section in a layer of epoxy so thick, you could barely see the sign underneath.

I’ll give it to him, that board never broke again, but that’s because no one could ever use it again. When we tried, it sunk like a lead weight. It sat in his storage room for the next decade, a reminder of questionable choices and unattainable aspirations.

I bought another used board the next summer and tried again, but I don’t recall ever once standing and riding a wave for more than a few seconds. That third board now sits in our mudroom, an Action 7’6″, ready for whichever of my boys wants to take up where I left off. I’ve already done the hard part, kids – it should be smooth surfing from here on out.

by Jessi Waugh