New Year’s day. Midmorning. The sun is doing it’s best to break the grip of the Atlantic system on the North coast of Hispaniola. Occasional light shafts play on the green of the flat horizon; a Winslow Homer or a Frederick Church. The wind tears onto the beach at an angle and casts sand at squinting lids and sunburned forearms; it also blows the waves high and messy. The near shore is more of a chop than a break, and the experienced are merely watching the show from the high ground.
New Years’s day. A hungover eight AM. The world is pale. A dully glowing ball holds close to where the Southern horizon should be, and an inspection of the surroundings reveals a thousand flecks crossing diagonally to the ground and cutting visibility to thirty yards. They are already collected there freshly at knee height. It has been snowing since long before dawn, and will not stop until the next day. A whiteout.
My shirt is too tight upon my upper body – which fell from grace in this rockless country long ago – but the brand label bears my name, “Guillermo,” so I wear it as one of those unnecessary tokens of luck employed by people who go on the sea. My soccer shorts are incongruous. My toe knuckles wink through worn holes in my borrowed water shoes. I am a sight. I hold my rented longboard under my right arm and stabilize it against the wind with my left. The blown sand adheres in clumps to the damp waxed surface.
I stare at my gloves as I knock them together for warmth. They have seen four seasons patched with duct tape, and before that, years on my father’s hands as he worked on the woodpile. The chairlift seat is cold through my nylon pants and even through my two jackets. My ears have the only claim to warmth, tucked inside a well-insulated helmet. My nose feels its legacy of frostbite and begins a revisitation as the wind scrapes my skin. The goggles I pull down into position turn my view green. I offer a clack of the freeheel skis hanging from my boots as the top of the line comes into half-formed view.
Andrew struggles with the wind as much as I do; we traverse the beach to the only spot with an appreciable channel. He is serene as we wade out, plant our boards on the water and wash them clear of sand. He maintains a focus as we begin to paddle, and he is soon far ahead. As I flounder in the shoulder-high breakers and swallow my beginner’s share of seawater, I catch a glimpse of him drifted to my left. He sits up on his board in a confusion of waves, looking for something rideable.
Chris’s neon yellow helmet is impossible to lose in the swirl of snow as we disembark the lift and skate across the summit flats with long diagonal strides. The red cross on his ski patrol jacket is just visible as I pull to a stop behind him at the top of the chosen slope. He is on one knee, locking the buckles of his forward boot and staring off down the pitch, choosing his line.
In my fight to clear the foam and break, I see Andrew – for just a moment before the next wave rolls across my view – paddling hard toward the shore at the top of a swell. He pushes fast into a standing position on his board and is lost in front of the wave as he drops in. Riding to glory, I’d like to think.
With a whoop almost lost to the wind, Chris kicks off down the slope. Dropping into the telemark stance, he shuffles through three tight, arcing S-turns, and is over the edge of the first cliff, out of my sight. The trace of his passage is still written on the snow, but the only sound is the wind.
Though I don’t really know what I’m looking for, I turn in front of a likely swell and begin a flailing run to catch the break. I feel the rise and see the foam begin to fleck the crest of the ridge on either side, as I pass the critical point and gravity has me. I haul myself to my feet. The water drops out from below.
With nothing more than a lean forward, I’m flying down the pitch with the snow spitting away from the drive of my knees. Two turns – neither as smooth as Chris’s – bring me to the drop, and with a quick push of the legs I’m airborne. Is this what It’s like to fly?
*
It could be said that I miss skiing. It could be said that I feel the absence of the active rush, of the reflex-reliant technique, and of the fellowship. It could also be said that I’ve been shown something of each in surfing, but with the beginner’s mind and the sensation of discovery and improvement. Far from home and experience, the integration of past and present becomes more important every day. The transition between gravity sports has been the most prominent connection for me, but I wonder what other ways exist for rediscovering flight.
New Years’s day. A hungover eight AM. The world is pale. A dully glowing ball holds close to where the Southern horizon should be, and an inspection of the surroundings reveals a thousand flecks crossing diagonally to the ground and cutting visibility to thirty yards. They are already collected there freshly at knee height. It has been snowing since long before dawn, and will not stop until the next day. A whiteout.
My shirt is too tight upon my upper body – which fell from grace in this rockless country long ago – but the brand label bears my name, “Guillermo,” so I wear it as one of those unnecessary tokens of luck employed by people who go on the sea. My soccer shorts are incongruous. My toe knuckles wink through worn holes in my borrowed water shoes. I am a sight. I hold my rented longboard under my right arm and stabilize it against the wind with my left. The blown sand adheres in clumps to the damp waxed surface.
I stare at my gloves as I knock them together for warmth. They have seen four seasons patched with duct tape, and before that, years on my father’s hands as he worked on the woodpile. The chairlift seat is cold through my nylon pants and even through my two jackets. My ears have the only claim to warmth, tucked inside a well-insulated helmet. My nose feels its legacy of frostbite and begins a revisitation as the wind scrapes my skin. The goggles I pull down into position turn my view green. I offer a clack of the freeheel skis hanging from my boots as the top of the line comes into half-formed view.
Andrew struggles with the wind as much as I do; we traverse the beach to the only spot with an appreciable channel. He is serene as we wade out, plant our boards on the water and wash them clear of sand. He maintains a focus as we begin to paddle, and he is soon far ahead. As I flounder in the shoulder-high breakers and swallow my beginner’s share of seawater, I catch a glimpse of him drifted to my left. He sits up on his board in a confusion of waves, looking for something rideable.
Chris’s neon yellow helmet is impossible to lose in the swirl of snow as we disembark the lift and skate across the summit flats with long diagonal strides. The red cross on his ski patrol jacket is just visible as I pull to a stop behind him at the top of the chosen slope. He is on one knee, locking the buckles of his forward boot and staring off down the pitch, choosing his line.
In my fight to clear the foam and break, I see Andrew – for just a moment before the next wave rolls across my view – paddling hard toward the shore at the top of a swell. He pushes fast into a standing position on his board and is lost in front of the wave as he drops in. Riding to glory, I’d like to think.
With a whoop almost lost to the wind, Chris kicks off down the slope. Dropping into the telemark stance, he shuffles through three tight, arcing S-turns, and is over the edge of the first cliff, out of my sight. The trace of his passage is still written on the snow, but the only sound is the wind.
Though I don’t really know what I’m looking for, I turn in front of a likely swell and begin a flailing run to catch the break. I feel the rise and see the foam begin to fleck the crest of the ridge on either side, as I pass the critical point and gravity has me. I haul myself to my feet. The water drops out from below.
With nothing more than a lean forward, I’m flying down the pitch with the snow spitting away from the drive of my knees. Two turns – neither as smooth as Chris’s – bring me to the drop, and with a quick push of the legs I’m airborne. Is this what It’s like to fly?
*
It could be said that I miss skiing. It could be said that I feel the absence of the active rush, of the reflex-reliant technique, and of the fellowship. It could also be said that I’ve been shown something of each in surfing, but with the beginner’s mind and the sensation of discovery and improvement. Far from home and experience, the integration of past and present becomes more important every day. The transition between gravity sports has been the most prominent connection for me, but I wonder what other ways exist for rediscovering flight.
