My heart pounded as I hauled my surfboard to the water’s edge. Out past the cresting waves, experienced surfers bobbed on slim boards, waiting for a well-formed peak. They’d paddle hard, racing the swells and leaping to stand in time to soar along the glossy face of each curl. I longed to master such grace.
“Are you ready?” my instructor asked.
Why We Wrote This
When you’re used to playing the expert, diving into the unknown can be daunting. But as our essayist learns, being a novice can be exhilarating.
No, not at all, not even a little. I swallowed, following the instructor’s gaze to the roaring, 5-foot breakers pounding the beach. The hairs on my arms rose.
“Let’s go!”
I crossed my first wave, arms wheeling. My board erupted from the sea, catapulting me straight into the churn. Again and again.
Yet I wasn’t frustrated. Between the wrestling of boards and my tumbles with seaweed, I’d found a nonjudgmental curiosity about my experience that kept me going, even bruised and waterlogged.
Whether the next wave knocked me off course or became the best ride of my life, I didn’t need to know what was coming. The mastery is in the process of discovery and response, of finding a way forward, whatever comes.
As a corporate strategist, I’m used to showing up with authority, presenting data-heavy charts and hard-hitting PowerPoint presentations to influential executives. Playing the expert is an exhausting business. Which is why, on a much-needed Costa Rican sabbatical, I felt particularly out of my depth as I stood on a stretch of piping hot sand as a rank beginner, a 9-foot foam surfboard tucked under my arm.
My heart pounded as I hauled my badge of dishonor to the water’s edge. At work, being unsure felt like a liability, winding me up tight. Here, it was plain embarrassing, with the entire beach watching.
Out past the cresting waves, experienced surfers bobbed on small, slim boards, waiting for a well-formed peak. They’d paddle hard, racing the swells and leaping to stand in time to soar along the glossy face of each curl. I longed to master such grace.
Why We Wrote This
When you’re used to playing the expert, diving into the unknown can be daunting. But as our essayist learns, being a novice can be exhilarating.
“Are you ready?” my instructor asked.
No, not at all, not even a little. It’d been too long since I tried something new, my busy career demanding single-minded focus. I swallowed, following the instructor’s gaze to the roaring, 5-foot breakers pounding the beach. The hairs on my arms rose.
“Let’s go!” My answer surprised me, but I meant it. I loved the beauty and power of the ocean and dreamed of harnessing its elemental energy. I’d burned through my own years ago.
My instructor demonstrated how to push the board through the waves, while walking with “the stingray shuffle,” rubbing feet over sand to create vibrations that would tell any burrowed rays to flee my approach. When we were finally waist-deep, he showed me how to turn and ride back to shore on my belly.
The next time, we shuffled out till I was chest-deep, and my instructor told me to climb onto my board. I put both hands on the deck of my board and jumped, landing with a wet thud on my stomach. A wall of white water swiftly filled in behind, and I paddled, gaining speed.
Pushing up, I swung wobbly legs beneath me, forgetting any embarrassment in my toddlerlike delight at standing on my board for the first time. I promptly toppled off. After a few more false starts, I zipped weightless toward shore.
The rush was over too fast, and I fell, smashing my tailbone into the soft sand. But it didn’t hurt. I leaped up, hurrying back in for my next thrilling ride.
Nothing would stop me now.
“Remember the stingray shuffle!” my instructor called. I forced myself to slow, eager to try again – and again.
This, I learned, is the power of a beginner’s mind. Failures become steppingstones to success. Setbacks transform into lessons. Wonder heightens the senses, and the delight of newness ignites play and exploration.
Slowly, I progressed. I learned to stroke through the onslaught of waves to get “out the back,” reaching the coveted calm beyond the break where real surfers commune. I practiced reading swells until I could predict their arrival and speed. Finally, I caught my first ride, surging along a crest of pure ocean fire. My heart soared like the pelicans above. I was no longer a novice.
But I was not yet a master. Most waves rammed me feet-over-head through an underwater wringer till I struggled up for air. The awe of newness receded. I contemplated quitting. I’d never become an ace, dancing on a board so small it’s called a fish. But I wanted to taste their freedom. So I carried on.
After weeks of practice, my movements grew fluid. I rode more, fell less. And then, at last, my instructor offered something new. A Malibu longboard, it was bright and sleek. Forget foam; I could add wax. Now I was getting somewhere. I pranced down the beach with my prize.
I knew the drill. Shuffle to chest-deep. Paddle through incoming breakers. Head for the deep blue.
I crossed my first inbound wave, arms wheeling. But my new board erupted from the sea, catapulting me straight into the churn. Resurfacing, I tried to grab the beast, but the slippery thing swished away as I attempted mounting. With a rueful grin, I gave chase.
What would come next, backflips?
Yet I wasn’t frustrated. Sometime since my first day surfing, between the wrestling of boards and my tumbles with seaweed, I’d found a nonjudgmental curiosity about my experience that kept me going, even bruised and waterlogged. Perhaps I’d tasted the seasoned surfers’ freedom after all.
Panting, I caught the board, dragging myself on top to take a beat. Then I looked up.
Another watery rampart was already bearing down.
“Will we make it?” I whispered to myself, fervently paddling, still gasping from my last adventure. But I knew I’d come out the other side, one way or another. The thought filled me with an energizing peace, one I’d take with me when I left Costa Rica.
Whether the next wave knocked me off course or became the best ride of my life, I didn’t need to know exactly what was coming. I’d never be the expert; not even the aces knew the next wave in advance. Fresh challenges kept rolling in, each one filled with possibility and opportunities for growth.
Suddenly, my career looked a little different. Sure, I have an expertise, but I don’t need to be “the expert.” The mastery is in the process of discovery and response, of finding a way forward, whatever comes.