I spend a lot of time surfing … on the Internet, of course. But why not try to surf the real deal? After all, I’m a native Californian. I own a wetsuit. How difficult can it be? So in celebration of a milestone birthday, I researched the options and signed up for a week with Las Olas Surf Safari, a women-only surf camp designed to teach women the fundamentals of surfing in a safe, non-judgmental environment.
In the interests of full disclosure: I’m not much of a swimmer. I was three years old when I first tumbled into the surf at Morro Bay, and I’ve never forgotten how terrified I was when the current sucked me head over heels into the churning whitewater. Although I’ve been on a board before, I’ve never managed to get off my knees—so throwing myself into the relentless, unforgiving waves off the coast of central Mexico made me a little nervous. But I felt safe knowing that Las Olas’ experienced instructors are used to clumsy, inexperienced surfer wannabes like me—and besides, how could I possibly resist a week spent relaxing on a Mexican beach? Vaminos!
I flew down to Puerto Vallarta to kick off my surfer girl adventure, meeting the Las Olas team and my sister refugees from civilization in a small village north of the city. Our young and very well-toned instructors went over a laundry list of details that covered everything from surf etiquette to the physics of a breaking wave. It’s an enormous amount of information that I knew I’d never remember—but they assured us that the way to learn is through constant repetition, and they would repeat everything again and again and again until we got it. By the way, everything would be repeated again and again and again until we got it. And in case we weren’t listening the first time …
By this point, I was clear on the mechanics of surfing, but I was less confident about my ability to actually comply on the fly. I’m good at following directions, but I wasn’t at all certain that I’d remember to shift my hips to the side while planting my back foot at the same time that I’d be swinging my other leg forward and pushing up into a standing position. And although “not drowning” wasn’t mentioned, I was pretty sure that was also part of the plan. But the soft foam longboards were broad and buoyant, perfect for keeping wobbly surfers like me afloat. Jen, a former Cal State Bakersfield swim champion who is now teaching women like me to embrace their inner surfer girls, showed me how to swing my longboard onto my head without hitting anyone in my immediate vicinity. She gave me the thumbs up and I joined the line of surfers headed to the waves.
I admit that I was a little tentative, but I wasn’t about to be derailed by my fear of drowning. And it was a beautiful morning—sunny and breezy, with the ocean as warm as bathwater. Still, I barely managed to sit on my board without tumbling over. Our instructors showed me how to balance by loosening my death grip on the rails and finding the sweet spot where my body was centered.
The first time I felt the whitewater break over my head, I had a vision of my three-year-old self screaming as my brother grabbed my elbow to keep me from washing out with the tide. This time, I remembered to cover my head so that the board wouldn’t bash me unconscious, and I gritted my teeth over a mouthful of salt water and rubbed my eyes dry. I can do this, I thought, pulling myself up and over the edge of my board. By the time lunch rolled around, I was waterlogged and ravenous from hours of being pummeled over and over by the whitewater near the shore—but the thrill was intoxicating. I can do this!
