First Waves of Youth, or Why I Hate Being a Grownup
I recently had the pleasure of witnessing a friend’s son stand up on his first wave. It happened right as I approached the beach. I didn’t expect to see my friend, much less his son riding what would hopefully be the first of many waves. The level of stoke on the beach raised visibly, enveloping even the die-hards who rarely smile at anything.
The kid is a goofyfoot, just like his old man.
We’ve all been there, self-conscious in the face of people watching the mythical first wave. I remember mine, on a towering eight-foot yellow rented single-fin. It took more than a few tries to get to my feet, but when it happened and the shorebreak mush pushed me forward, all the trial and error was worth it.
Somewhere along the way, the fun of surfing disappeared. It became more competitive, and I needed to be better than everyone around me, whether that meant casting stink-eye or slapping the water and cursing when I blew a roundhouse cutback. Call it youthful indiscretion, call it teenage angst, either way, I was a jerk.
Over time, the waves have come and gone, and with them, some of those I’ve surfed with. I’d like to thinkthat the sometimes absurd nature of life has mellowed me. Now, even though I still stink at surfing, I laugh more often than not. Face it, life is way too short to get aggravated over a wave. As my friend mentioned earlier is fond of saying, “There’ll be another.”
As for his son, I can only hope that he keeps the smile he had that day, and keeps it close to his heart. I hope that all of us can do that.