Regardless of who’s doing the teaching, you can leave the teaching to an instructor. Photo: Sasha Samusevych//Unsplash
Years ago, my then-girlfriend Ali and I spontaneously jetted to Costa Rica – an early-in-the-relationship compatibility test if there ever was one. Ali wanted to learn to surf, and while I’d scoped YouTube for a couple coaching tips, I was confident I could get her cruising pretty easily.
When we hit the beach, I ditched my board and stood in the breakers while Ali popped up and rode the white water on her rented longboard. She did so well that she grew bored and wanted to paddle to the outside, where surfers dotted the sunny horizon. As we talked turtle-rolls, I missed the fact that the gentle swells would grow angry over the next hour. When we made it out, the waves were head-high and barreling. “Paddle!” I shouted as an outside set filled the horizon. A second later, she was gone.
I’m going to shoot from the hip here: there are some fantastic surf coaches out there; but I am not one of them. Each time I’ve tried to teach Ali to surf, I’ve failed worse than the Patriots last season.
I’ve attempted my inexpert tutelage in those warm waves of Costa Rica, on a calm day in Rhode Island, and on a few different days in Southern California. Ali and I are still engaged – well, I’m 75 percent sure – but those swell days did little to enhance her affection for surfing, or me.
I should point out that over the years, Ali’s also had a few promising sessions – one where she caught more waves than me. Recently, though, my love for surfing has ballooned as her interest has waned. After a session last year, she said she’s “just not that into all that paddling,” which is like saying you’ll try some Mexican food but you’re “just not that into all those tortillas.”
For me, surfing is a chance to express myself, an escape, a euphoric pursuit that ignites my soul. Ali sees it as a lot of cold wetsuits, rocky reefs, sting rays and time spent in the impact zone for very little reward.
However, our different perceptions of the sport are not the reason that I think I should hang up my coaching whistle, and it’s also not because I am a hapless teacher. I spent a few successful seasons teaching snowboarding in Tahoe, and I taught college writing classes for 15 years. I was patient with the beginners on the snow and the homesick college kids. I only had one person ever quit on me on the slopes, a woman who tumbled into the pow, dusted herself off, looked me straight in the eye and said: “look, I told my husband I’d try, but now I’m going to the bar.”
Back to Costa Rica, as I searched the beach in vain. Ali wasn’t where we’d tossed our towels, and she wasn’t getting pummeled by the heavy whitewash with the other rookies. Panic sizzled like sunburn on my skin. Losing the woman at sea would probably mean I failed the relationship test, no? I envisioned calling her dad – who I’d never met – and explaining his daughter had, well, you know…drifted away.
Finally, I saw a bedraggled mermaid emerge from the crowded shoreline, dragging a longboard behind her like a wounded horse. Luckily, she laughed as she described the ripping current that pulled her down the beach, where a guy remarked, “It’s bigger than I thought it’d be.”
“It’s my first time on the outside!” Ali exclaimed.
“I’ll look out for you,” the guy said. Then he disappeared on a wave, and she was lifted and fired like a Pedro Martinez fastball towards shore.
In addition to almost losing Ali to the surf gods, I’ve run into another problem: the sad state of the (or, my) male ego. I don’t know if this is true for others who’ve tried to coach someone you fight over the last bowl of cereal with, but during my “lessons,” I get a little…carried away. Ali’s line is “Brian disappears on a wave and then I don’t see him for a while.”
Truthfully, my perpetual waves-are-rare New England mindset means that if I see a peak swooping towards me, I often zombie out and only wake up when I kick out of the wave. But sadly, I also can’t help but want Ali to finally see me surf a halfway decent wave. Why? No idea, except that I apparently want to impress her, which perhaps relates back to our basic biological impulses. My sweet surfing will display strength and skill, translating to my ability to chuck spears at wild game, build a tent from palm trees and wavy snail shells and sear some octopus over an open flame.
The one time Ali saw me catch a wave and raised the camera, I got so excited that I ate it, hard. Not to worry, I’ve since tossed the picture and the camera into the bonfire, a “surf sacrifice” of sorts. I know, she’s a lucky gal.
When we try to convey our love for something that, to outsiders, may not appear worth the effort, we put pressure on ourselves. I rushed to take Ali surfing one summer afternoon in Rhode Island, so excited she’d agreed to go that I didn’t realize the waves had mushed out. Instead of the sea change I envisioned, where Ali suddenly innately understood my love for surfing, we bobbed like buoys in tides spotted with seaweed.
Another realization I’ve had about the dark art of surf coaching is that most of us did not benefit from it. I didn’t start surfing consistently until my mid to late 20s, and I had to grind it out and study the people around me to grasp the fundamentals. My friends, many of them good surfers, offered helpful phrases like “Paddle!” “Go!” and “Dude, are you OK?”
In an interview, pro surfer and Olympic coach Magnum Martinez says that riding waves “…is not easy to teach; [because] it’s not easy to do it yourself. That’s why surfing is so hard.” Maybe the inherent complexity of surfing, the DIY way so many of us learn, and the difficulty many of us have in explaining “how” to do it, contribute to my own coaching shortcomings.
There is a secretive “Brah, I had to do the work, now you do,” ethos that pervades surfing, and I don’t necessarily think this is a bad thing. Learning to surf can often be a cold, frustrating slog, and it helps novices prepare for that. However, those who stick with it earn the sublime rewards that, with practice, forever bloom and intensify their addiction.
At around age 11, a buddy and I beat ourselves up for days on a bunny slope in New Hampshire. Avid skateboarders, we thought replacing cement with snow would be simple, so who needed lessons? We crashed into the icy hardpack, the trees, trail signs, each other, and a lot of thorny New England thicket. At the end of the week, we laughed because our butts and legs were entirely black and blue, but we were also laying out carves and ollying off moguls.
Surfing has a vastly different learning curve, but perhaps there’s no coaching substitute for falling, failing, and trying again. I also realize that it’s a good thing for partners to have divergent pursuits, so, maybe I’m off the hook.
But if Ali asks me to teach her to surf again, I’m definitely in. I can do this. Put me in, coach!
And if I don’t nail it and she decides surfing isn’t her thing?
We’ll just go snowboarding, since thankfully, the woman rips and doesn’t need any lessons.
