Two years

Today, October 6, is the day when, two years ago, I began to surf at Roaring Beach daily.

Not that everyday has seen the water as benign as in the photo. Nor has it always been easy to get into a wet suit when a southerly is howling or when I had the flu this past winter. But go I did if for no other reason than to honour my commitment to swim everyday for three years, three months, three weeks and three days and to experience what a disciplined, daily ritual such as this might bring.

So what have I gained so far? Well, besides being in better physical shape than when I started, I have certainly gotten to know “the path” down to the water; what tea trees, coastal wattles, native currants and other flora grow there; what wombats, echidnas, wallabies, cockatoos, oyster catchers and other fauna frequent there.

As for the water, I now know where the rips can be found even as the sand shifts their channels. The waves, too, speak a language that I never understood before; nor even knew existed. And the water’s moods, whether fierce or calm, each has its own beauty with which to tempt me. Never is there a day when the ocean is too big or too small to enjoy. I have found that communion comes in many forms.

But the ocean still remains a mystery and when I enter into it I know that I am entering into something way over my head; something I will never ever completely fathom. And, on those days when there is no other human around, which is most days, there lingers close to the surface a fear that has not diminished in the two years of being with it. I am not just talking about sharks. There is a deep, possibly archetypal fear that bubbles to the surface when one is bobbing alone out in the darkening swell.

What I have learned to do with this fear is simply to live with it. Not suppress it or feel bad that I haven’t overcome it; just quietly acknowledge its presence when it comes around and, at the same time, continue to ride the waves with joy.

The one emotion that washes over me most frequently is the exuberant, almost childlike delight in having a wave, or the white face of a broken wave, shoot me towards the beach; sort of like tobogganing down a snowy hillside with just a modicum of control.

What will the next 412 days offer?