mental check

4/30/09

The contrast of my black gloved hands in the clear green water somehow prompt the ridiculous thought in my numbed mind that they seem vaguely similar to sea lion flippers. I rue how much I could use their strength and grace at this moment, because it is all I can do to even lift my arms anymore. I have about as much strength and grace as a log; a flailing log at that. I force myself to breathe. Stroke, breath, stroke, breath, stroke, lie there helpless, lifeless, and pause for a brief rest.  The arms of my 5 mill wetsuit are heavy with water, a small price to pay to be able to play in the 42 degree water for a few hours. With every crashing wave I have to remind myself, convince myself, that I am having fun. It is quite an indescribable feeling, like my head is exploding into a million little pieces, rendering thought, movement, or will to do anything virtually impossible.  Its more intense then the worst brain freeze I have ever had in all my memories of wolfing down ice cream as a kid. The only thing to do is relax, wait for it to pass over(the few seconds are an eternity) and face the next wave, all the while making your arms paddle on, one stroke after the next. I am having fun right? I keep forcing myself onwards, loving it-loving the craziness of it, the preposterousness of it. As I recover my wits from that last thrashing, the conversation, or rather the argument, continues something like this in my head “What the hell am I doing out here?!”  “I am living, that’s what!” “Your gonna get yourself killed! The rip is gonna catch you! You are going to drown!” “Shut up-I am fine. Besides it’s a challenge, and I always love challenges. If I can’t go anymore all I have to do is hang on my board and ride it out, right? I am fine. Besides this is fun!” With every beating I take I am tempted to ride the white water in, get washed up to shore, not sure I can take anymore. But when my vision focuses after each tumble I look about to see where Mike is, and he is always farther out then I, battling away. I deny that voice of reason in my head in and face the next oncoming wall of white water, fighting my way out past the breakers. My pride manifests as stubbornness-if he can take it, so can I. And besides, I am having fun, right? Finally I get to where I need to be, out of the path of the breakers, and I pause, suspended in this moment in time. We are at a surf spot called “The Sag Shack” at Narrow Cape on Kodiak Island. Its blowing about southeast 40, and the sky is as gray and drizzly as the clay cliffs lining the coast. It is beautiful here, so rugged and forlorn. I could live in a place like Kodiak. There are snow-capped mountains everywhere, old forest growth covers much of the land, and there are hundreds of unexplored little bays and coves. The land is teeming with wildlife. We drove by a deer, and two different foxes.  We stopped to look at one of them, and it sat down on the side of the road and stared right back, just as intrigued by us as we were by it. I wont forget those piercing blue-flecked eyes, unafraid and curious, mysterious and wise. These waves are beautiful, although a bit unpredictable as far as where they break. Normally there is a pattern, but here they seem to break all over the place, inside and out.  They are about 8 foot faces, and I haven’t caught anything yet. That’s not the point though. I am out here and that’s all that matters.  I am still a novice surfer, and I get the feeling this would be a totally different thrill if I was actually able to rip it on these waves. But I am thoroughly enjoying myself anyways. It is a challenge, a mental test, a way to experience the ocean from an entirely new perspective. If I had to answer why I endure what some would call misery, why I choose to put myself through this insanity, I would have to say it boils down to the fact that it makes me feel alive. My thoughts are interrupted by the next set rolling in. I see Mike get absolutely annihilated by a monster, and it is hopeless for him to try and fight back out where he is. He gets washed in. Exhausted,  I except the punishment of one of these breakers, and relax as I “rag-doll” in. I can’t feel my feet any more, and my hands are wooden blocks.  My feet touch bottom and my knees are weak and shaky as I stand on cramping legs.  My only focus now is to make it to the vehicle. Truck=heat. I forget there are still waves crashing in this shallow surf. I get struck in the back, and my wetsuit flushes with freezing water and gritty sand as I flounder about in the shallows. I have had enough. Cursing in utter exasperation, I will myself out of this agonizing frustration, and up the beach to the car. Barely able to process thoughts, I realize I still have to change out of my wetsuit in these chilly conditions. I don’t even care anymore. I fight the neoprene with numb hands, my naked skin exposed to the blustery weather. With my damp jeans halfway on, I throw myself in front of the heater. Every time people in Mexico asked whether I surfed in Alaska, they’d say, “Boy! It must be cold!‘ They have no idea. I am having fun though, right?