On Tuesdays, I surf.
That was a total lie.
Truth. On Tuesdays, I try to surf.
I never dreamed I'd live in the same town as my brother, let alone have a standing date with him, but now I do and it's pretty much the highlight of my week. My weeks are pretty great, but surfing is in that echelon of really cool things that most people wish they could do. C'mon, you know you have, if even for a moment, wished you could surf. On Tuesdays, I get to do that thing that, as we can now agree, most people wish they could do. And I get to do it with my brother.
We are terrible. He turned once and gets up more than I do. Some days, I don't catch any waves. Once I threw up. Sometimes, we just paddle. There have been days I can't even paddle past the break. More than once, I didn't care about catching simply because sea turtles kept popping their heads above water, just checking me out. I flounder. I flop. I misjudge waves. I fall. I cut the crap out of my legs and feet on rocks. I drink a lot of salt water. My bathing suit does NOT stay in place. Balancing on the board is not easy, sitting. The number of times we've surfed and the number of waves I've caught are not proportional, but I still love it. Every wave I've caught is a complete surprise.
I thought I'd be better. I started swimming competitively at four. I snowboard. I skateboard (longboards count). I understand and respect the power of the ocean. I took lessons in Hawaii. I wear a rashguard. My board is so damn long it feels more like a canoe than a board. None of it helps. The waves laugh at me. So does my brother.
We don't talk much out in the water. I can't really see him ride waves. Every time we go, he says the same thing as we trudge back to the truck, "It's good to get out." Every time, I absolutely agree.