As days go by and time drifts from one week to the next, I find that I am becoming completely enraptured by the waters of the central Pacific. Oahu always looks good from off shore. The island is idyllic with its clusters of coconut trees rising from the sun streaked water colored every shade of blue, and at times in rougher distant weather, green.

Zack is the boyfriend of one of my neighbors. He is not a normal person. He is from New Zealand, and has taught in nearly every school between Fiji and Hawaii, spending a good deal of time in the obscure atolls of the south Pacific, places I had no idea existed other than the the likes of the Marshall Islands. His world revolves around books and surfing. Zack has been patient enough to tutor me in the world of surfing. I would usually see him loading up his boards in his VW bus, so one day I asked him if he would teach me to surf. Unfortunately this was during a time last week when the swells of the south beaches were up to 3-5 feet. The usual inviting reef-breakers on the south shore tend to be a modest 2-3 feet. Ahead, I could see Zack paddling furiously up the face of a wave that eventually crashed upon me, after which a series of breakers targeted me. Were the surfing demi-gods telling me to paddle back to shore? The waters finally calmed so that I was able to regain composure and paddled myself and my surfboard past the breakers, now in wait for my invitation. "What do I do now" I yelled. "Look for a wave shaped like an A" The first several waves I caught were hand outs. I did nearly nothing besides paddling a little ahead of the mounting surf, the water would gently glide my board up and push me along, eventually the wave would submerge and I would turn around and go at it again. My confidence fools me some times.

There is a moment, shortly after one accepts the imminence of one's demise, when it occurs that you could be elsewhere: that if you simply left the house a little later, or lingered over a mai tai, you would not be here now confronting your mortality. This moment occurred just as I encountered a very large (from my perspective), rare and surprising wave. A wave that was pitching and howling, and it really had no business being where it was-underneath me. My options were not good. The demon wave picked me up and after that, I have only a vague recollection of spinning limbs, a weaponized surf board, and chaotic white water. I wondered if surfing is for me. I generally no longer engage in adrenaline rush activities that carry with them a strong likely hood of life-altering injury.

"That really sucked" I told myself. "You picked the wrong wave" Zack said after surfing the same distance in a state of such languid repose, seemingly mocking my tumble through the water. The paddle to shore was reassuring, though. Soon, I will be back on top of a wave, the next time with better clarity, and hopefully in front of the break. I don't want to get sappy about it, but being on the waves just offshore of a tropical island is about as sublime an experience as one can find on this planet.