“Ready…Go…Up!”: Surfering in Costa Rica

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And Andy makes it look easy Enlarge photo

I spend much of the morning stretching in anticipation of my 11:00 surfing lesson. As I pay my $65 fee, the salespeople at the hotel say it’s great for everybody. Then, at breakfast, a man who surfed all his childhood tells me he tried but couldn’t get up and was “humbled.” A ramshackle minibus meets us at the gate of our hotel. As Andy and I climb in, the beach boy greets us. It sounds like he says, “Are you ready to go suffering?” We pick up a few other gringo tourists and head for the beach. Someone predicts, “This’ll be good exercise.” I worry out loud, “Uh-huh, in humiliation.”

At the beach, we all put on tight stretch surfing shirts to protect our chests and bellies from chafing…all the ups and downs of learning to catch a wave. Then — looking like the Gilligan’s Islandcrew — we get in a line on the beach to “loosen up.” Our coach, Alberto, has us running, shuffling in a line to the right, running backwards, and shuffling to the left…perhaps just to entertain the locals hanging out at the beach.

Alberto then draws a line in the sand and says, “Lay on this.” He demonstrates the one critical motion for surfing: arch back — like a yoga-style mermaid stretch…hands below nipples…right leg stays back…quickly snap to your feet, bringing the left leg to the front as you stand. Repeat.

After a too-hasty intro on the beach, we’re issued our surfboards — not light, soft top, easy for my toes to grip, well-worn like something that’s weathered lots of turbulence. With runaway straps lashed to our ankles, we walk into the sea like a holiday chain gang.

The waves are just right for beginners. Several beach boys join Alberto and steady our boards facing the beach until just the right moment. Anticipating the cresting wave, they give us a shove (we are pre-paddlers relying on our coaches for propulsion) and yell, “Ready…go…up!” The kids in our group get up first time. They ride like daredevils on the ski slope. The older surfers in our gang struggle for the strength and overthink things.

Catching a wave, I get only “up” on my knees. Still, I sense the thrill of surfing. Even on my knees, I lean forward to go faster, lean back to slow down. As Alberto promised, the board — like a bike — is more stable when it’s moving. Perhaps the hard plastic fins are working.

The lunge muscle in my left leg is just not there, and my arms aren’t strong enough to throw my body up. Alberto says to not stop at the knees. Don’t think face-down. Pretend your head is going up first. Your head rockets up in one motion, springing the body off the board. Forget the right leg…it stays behind. I need to thrust up and plant my left foot directly under my body at a snowboarding angle for balance.

I fail and fail. Come close and tumble. The board spins disobediently away from me, dragging me like a small boy deserving a spanking toward the shore. I tame the board, face the waves, and fight through the surf back out. Hold the nose of the board high, cut it into the waves. You catch a wave going in. Catch a wave wrong struggling back out, and your board can smash you in the face.

My teacher says some old, out-of-shape guys just give up. He likes my determination. I flop onto the board like a rock cod that just jumped into a dinghy. My belly button lines up with the board’s mid-line. I’m facing the white Styrofoam surface, water sloshing and slapping, key left leg resting (knowing victory hinges on its ability to get me up), hands not gripping the edge (because then you lose altitude) but in the center, ribs pressing on my thumbs, coiled, poised, waiting for the gentle push by my teacher and the “Ready…go…up!” command. My nose is one inch from the board. My entire periphery is filled with the battered white of the board and warm Costa Rica sea slopping and sloshing before my eyes. People are gone. My soundtrack is just water.

Alberto promises to catch me a good wave. Suddenly the water is smooth and quiet. It’s the calm before the wave. My coach says this is it, and gives me a strong push. I pull my head back, see the entire front of the board as I arch up, then, in one motion, I push everything up. My left leg lands just right immediately under my body, and — like a weightlifter struggling for a personal best — it straightens up.

Suddenly I’m rushing before a foamy cauldron as the wave charges toward the shore…and I lead the way. I’m standing high above the noisy rush of the water, playing with my control, traversing as if to extend the ride. Then I crouch as if racing before an engulfing tunnel of a giant wave… even though I am on the baby slope in a harmless little three-footer. The ride seems longer than it is. And that 15 seconds of surfer exhilaration is worth all the surfering.

Jumping from my board as the wave runs out of steam, I pick up the board. Alberto back out at sea is giving a big two-thumbs-up. No more chain gang, I head back to catch another wave.