Learning to surf has not always been easy: it is certainly not an automatic, pre-programmed process, at least for me. The stoke ( to wit, i.e. the 'passion') grew from the depths of a previously unknown and uncharted spirit. The paths to the line up have been, and still are, peppered with obstacles and deterrents. If it is not one's own physical health, then it is something else: offshore winds, box jellyfish, low tide and high coral, kona winds, the crowds, and yes even the surfer chicks have chuckled at me. There are times when these encounters can get in the way, and they can gain strength in overcoming one's desire to surf. My gestalt therapist noted that if one lets them win, those otherwise petty forces can be effective at keeping you on the land
And if that happens, other pressing responsibilities of life tend to take over: you are not so eager to leave the 1 1/2 hour meeting at work, the broken closet door beckons your attention, and eventually, riding waves takes a back seat. An otherwise uninteresting colleague invites you golfing, you possibly take on another hobby, you tease the cats more than usual, and then you are not interested in having the puka in your board fixed by Kimo, you are no longer following the used board section on Craigslist searching for the next addition to your quiver. You can talk yourself out of the 3 minute drive to the south shore beach because the tide is too low, and the guys at the line up will just shoot you the stink eye once you paddle out, or without mentioning a word, they will gnash and claw at what's left of your faith in humanity.
This might be the foundation being laid in the making of surfing becoming a chore-something that you have to do instead of something you want to do. So you take a break, you stop surfing for a little while. After some time, you notice your muscles are a little less toned, they begin to shrink, becoming atrophied, and you start to wither away. Your wife is telling you to go to the doctor, because something must be wrong. You used to surf too much , she would say. Now she's worried that you are not surfing at all! Your once tanned skin is now translucent, your once broad shoulders are now a boney clothes hanger for your golf shirt to hang loose from, Soon your surf buddies forget about you. They stop calling, the don't invite to surfing or to beach grills. You become a hermit: A lonely, translucent depressed excuse of a human being, depressed, with weak shoulders and a worried wifeLoosing your will to maintain performance can be disheartening. Even Pope Benedict lost his stoke. But fortunately you are not the Pope, and one day you day-dream about the reason why you had the stoke. You tire of your wife's worrisome attention: you know it's not a medical concern. You wake one morning, you enjoy a rare perfect cup of coffee and decide to stop being a cowardly sniveling self-involved drab of a person and you confront your unworthiness. You're going to paddle out to the line-up and smile at your salty brethren and compete for waves like a surfer should, no matter if the wind is onshore or your muscles are cramping or you bruise your ribs.
