I went wind surfing once when I was about 13, maybe 14. It was with a summer camp that aimed to take middle schoolers on new adventures each day - rock climbing, sailing, horseback riding. This one was at a reservoir in the scorched yellow hills north of Los Angeles. It was probably 100,000 degrees that day.
First, balance. Trying to plant my feet on this floor on the water. To find my center I negotiated the nature of the lake; when I resisted and was rigid, I fell. I feel pretty certain that I fell more than once. I remember a lot of huffing to try to get back on the board, come to standing, breathe, wobble, tense, fall, repeat. Panting, I finally got it: surrender. Go with it. Cool.
The next part was just hard work. Hoisting the rope that held the mast, pulling and pulling with my pencil arms to raise the sail that was submerged and impossibly heavy with water. More panting. Cross bar finally in my hands! Excited, muscles tense, determined. One of the camp counselors called to me and I looked over and had just enough time to register a cheerful thumbs-up before I was in the water again. I feel like this getting my footing, this digging and pulling and recalibrating - I feel like it took many, many attempts. I remember that by the time I had everything sorted out I was the last one on the dock, the other campers scattered little triangles on the lake.
But then there was a breeze. There was! And my sail dipped into it and carved a beautifully straight line away from the dock. Then the breeze was a wind and I started laughing - so beautiful and quiet and free. And competent, damn! I sailed past a few downed compatriots, clawing desperately back onto their boards like wet cats. A flutter of pity, but mostly pride as I was certain I had noticed a hint of awe on their faces as I glided expertly past. I had found the secret! I was the goddess of the lake, no, a warrior goddess! I was wind surfing and it was effortless.
I know. This is the part where I fall. But here's the thing, I don't fall! Instead, ignoring the urgent cries from the dock, I stay my course, strong and true to the end. All the way to the end, in fact, to the wall of the reservoir. Because that was the direction of the wind. And now the dock was really far away, and I was all alone, and there was no more wind.
I remembered this moment while talking to a friend the other day. She was breaking her head trying to figure out why she wasn't further along in her endeavors. Why, when she had worked so hard to finally set a clear goal, when every sign was confirming that yes, this is the right direction, why so many setbacks?
Tacking, I thought. I remembered then, stuck at the wrong side of the lake, that I was supposed to tack, to catch the wind where I could find it and use it to trace a course that would, indirectly, in a wild zig-zag pattern, get me where I needed to go. We do it to get down a steep mountain in the snow. We make the same pattern to stitch a wound together, actually - oh! and to run from crocodiles and wasps! Okay, that was a reach, but still, this was such an a-ha moment for me. My ideals, my vision is so clear, so straight, so logical, surely this is the way my goals will be reached. Surely this is the trajectory of my soul!
Nope. Tacking. Reaching each side with the deep sigh of recognition, as the scenery is not so very changed from when we were here the last time. Oh my God and of course there are moments of smooth sailing and straight flying and the exquisite ecstasy of YES! when all the pieces just fall into place. Gorgeous moments. But, moments.
I made it back to the middle of the lake and there I floundered for what felt like hours. In the end one of the staff had to come get me and tow me back to the dock. Bless him. By far the last one in, I am sorry to report I did not receive a warrior goddess's welcome, and those who had had to wait for me were aloof as we piled back into the camp van.
So exhausted, so spent, so embarrassed. Still, I snuck a smile as I looked out the window of the camp van. Because the warrior goddess? She's me too.