The Last Wave

It was the coldest day of the year, in Southern California, which meant I put away my 3/2mm Rip Curl wetsuit for a few months and pulled out my 4/3mm.  Cold meant we stowed our shorts in the closet for a few months and resurrected our long lost jeans. Everyone started wearing their Patagonias, but let’s be honest, it wasn’t because we needed them.  It was only because Patagonia was based in downtown Ventura and the small group of people who worked there had somehow made it trendy to wear the snow-grade jackets in our small surf town, which never boasted of snow. 

 My dad’s birthday had fallen on the coldest day of the year, and he wanted to surf for his birthday.  He was turning 65 and I guess it was his way of celebrating his life…the fact that he could get out and up on a surfboard.  But surfing to him meant rising before the sun to get in the ocean before sunrise.  On the coldest day of the year.  Anyone with a sane mind would have told him no, let’s wait until summer when we don’t need the wetsuits, or maybe wait at least until the sun was up.  But his birthday wish meant something different to me.  I didn’t grow up with my dad. 

Divorce broke my family when I was five, and for me, that meant I lived with my mom and sisters.  I was an expert at all things pink and girly, but couldn’t tell you a thing about changing a tire or tying a fishing lure.  I had grown up with a camping trip deficit.  Now that I was in my forties, I understood that time was slipping through my fingers like sand.  Illusive.  The waves that were breaking on that cold day in December were a one time thing.  Yes, there would be waves the next day, and the next, but every day was different, every day a priceless gift.  The older I got, the more precious every moment.  And so, I set the alarm for zero dark thirty and awoke, already cold.

The truth was, my dad was on borrowed time.  He had stage 4 cancer.  That word was like poison, synonymous with death for our family, as we had already lost two people to it last year.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have a survival story, full of hope and victory.  We only had two stories of tragic suffering and death.  So to me, cancer meant time was ticking.  The irony is, time is always ticking, it just comes down to our perspective, if we are aware of each tick, aware that once a moment passes, it can’t be lived again.  And when cancer robs you of loved ones, time seems to accelerate with increasing speed.

Divorce had also robbed us of time.  Because as a heartbroken kid, I had chosen to live with my mom, much had been stolen from my relationship with my dad.  It had stolen lazy mornings together, it had stolen the comfort and familiarity that comes with the routine of day after day together, but most of all, it had stolen my trust in relationship.  Not just with my parents, but with anyone.  I had learned way too young that relationships, like anything, could break.  If my mom and dad’s marriage, meant to be a strong foundation, could be broken, anything could be broken. 

It wasn’t until I was older, and so much of my self-centered worldview had been weaned through birthing and raising four children, did I realize that I didn’t even know how my dad liked his coffee.  We lived in the same town, and I didn’t even know his favorite restaurant.  So much stolen through divorce.  And when something is stolen, you can accept it, which I had done for years, or you can fight to redeem it.  And that’s what this cold day was, a fight for redemption.  

My dad’s cancer diagnosis meant we didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a warmer day, or until later in the year when the sun rose earlier.  So I got out of bed with all of these thoughts simultaneously held somewhere between my head and heart, and put on my warmest wetsuit, which I knew would never be warm enough.  I was already shivering just thinking about the cold, dark ocean, already at a temperature deficit, both irritable and resolute.

I heard the rumble of his truck and walked out of my house, away from my sleeping husband and kids, into the cold, dark morning.

“Happy Birthday,” I said, as I hugged my dad.

How many birthday mornings had I missed, caught up in life at my mom’s house, and then caught up in life in my own marriage and family?  I could lament over that or take hold of today, remain in the moment.  I reminded myself that I only had this present moment, so stay in it.  It was easier for me to grieve the past than stay in the moment.  I think for some reason, I felt like I could change the past by grieving it, but again, I reminded my healing heart that all we ever have is today.  Stay in it.

He handed me a warm Starbucks cup, a tall dark roast, with cream, no sugar, just how I liked it.  Apparently, it was never too late to learn how your daughter liked her coffee.  We chatted a lot about nothing important on the way to the beach, and I basked in the feeling of familiarity that had been found.  Grown with effort, actually.

We had no trouble finding a parking spot at C street, the semi-famous Ventura surf spot.  Few were willing to brave the cold, dark morning.  I thought about how we all have priorities that are revealed through action, not so much through words.  Our commitment to surfing (or was it to each other?) was more important than being warm and comfy in bed.  There were a handful of other cars that showed a die hard commitment to the surf, but the many empty spots made me slightly envious of the surfers who were still on their pillows or sipping coffee in a heated living room.

We waxed our boards in silence, and I tried not to notice the shiver in my hands, my chattering teeth.  I could smell the ocean.  That smell alone brought a calm to all of my body.  It was supernatural, really, how the salty air could heal wounds that were etched into my soul.  Was it the actual healing properties of the salt, or was it the ancient-ness of the ocean? The wisdom that was held in its mystery and timelessness. I knew the water waited for me with more to heal.  After the boards were waxed, I helped my dad pull his wetsuit up over his head.  He had one of those wetsuits that made me claustrophobic just thinking about it; the flap that came up over your head and wrapped your neck with neoprene.  I always opted for the zipper up the back, rather than the pull over.

Next, I used all of my strength to pull on my booties.  Not only would they give me a few extra minutes of being able to feel my toes before they went numb from cold water, they would protect my feet from the rocky walk into the ocean.  I wished I had gloves to keep my fingers warm.  They were the biggest victims of the cold.  I continued mentally preparing myself for the cold ocean.

I wondered what would be colder, the air or the water, as we crossed the empty street and walked towards the waves, still hidden by the dark.  I could hear them crashing and smell them, but couldn’t see their size.  I fought the fear that always comes with surfing.  The unpredictability of the ocean was such a good metaphor for life, which is also scary.  Life, like the waves, was uncontrollable.  Once a wave broke, it was gone forever, just like those moments in life. Each cold wave today would be a gift, and I wanted to enjoy each one, regardless of the fear.

We timed our entry into the water perfectly, waiting for a break in sets.  I could feel the icy cold water like needles through my booties and with each step, I reminded myself that this was a mental game.  Telling myself I wouldn’t die of hypothermia, this wasn’t the sinking of the Titanic, and I wasn’t stranded, I could get out at any time.  Again and again, I reminded myself of the ticking time, and how too much had been stolen from this relationship.  I couldn’t let the cold water steal any more.

Once we got past the break, we settled into the silence and serenity of the ocean.  It always wrapped me with peace and familiarity, accepting me, welcoming me, like a best friend.

Slowly, slowly, the sun rose over the mountains to the east and began to light up the sky.  I was able to see the endless yards of kelp beneath the surface, the seal heads bobbing at the surface of the water, watching me.  They, too, felt like familiar friends.

The waves were bigger and more powerful than I liked, way out of my comfort zone, so I settled in as an observer, watching the few other guys and my dad brave them.  I was the only woman in the ocean.  As they formed and rolled towards me, way over my head, I worked through the sensation of not being in control.  In reality, everything about my life was way over my head, too big for me, like the waves.  I had learned a skill, though, that made me feel invincible as a surfer.  If a wave scared me, I could dive under it.  It didn’t have to overtake me.  If only I could do the same in life, learn how to not let divorce or death or all of the many thieves that stole overtake me.

The thoughts distracted me from the fact that after about 30 minutes in the ocean, I could not feel my fingers or toes.  My bones felt cold.  I started to wonder if my blood was turning cold.  Dramatic, I know.

“How are you doing?” my dad asked, sensing my discomfort.

“Want to know what I’m thinking about?  All I can think about?”  I responded with a question and continued, “a sauna, a super hot sauna, where I’m sweating and so hot that I want to die.  Or the desert.”

He laughed, “Funny how we want what we don’t have in the moment, huh?”

I surrendered again to the cold, mentally working to overcome it.  We had agreed to brave the cold for an hour.  I could do anything for an hour.  Not only were my fingers and toes numb, they ached.  I reminded myself of all of those statistics I had heard on cold plunging and how good it was for the body.  Was it all just bullshit, or was this misery actually good for me?  Not just for my physical body, but mentally strengthening too, as I learned to push through numbness to actually catching a wave without being able to feel my limbs.

“Try to catch this next one, it’s yours,” my dad said, making up for years of lost advice and encouragement.

Terrified and cold as I was, I knew the coming wave, rolling towards me at a perfect angle, was mine.  I began to paddle, willing my arms to move through the cold water.  My mind was in charge, not my body.  I felt the familiar pull of the wave and knew the moment it had caught my board in its playful journey towards the rocky shore.  I jumped up, balanced, and did my best to become one with the water, all the while unable to feel any of my toes or fingers.  I heard my dad shouting in victory as I rode that wave past the other surfers, past the seals, basking in that rising sun and the light it cast on the glassy water.  The cold hour was well worth that rush of being a part of that wave, if only for a moment.  It was a reminder that we can not only dive beneath the storms of life, but let them carry us too, allowing them to make us better, stronger.  Victorious.

“That was the best birthday present, watching you catch that wave.” My dad said to me later in the truck, as we drove away from C Street, my seat heater working hard to unthaw me.

Could time be redeemed, bought back?  Could something that had been lost long ago be found?  Could broken, fractured relationships be mended?  Can living differently in the present change the past?  Somehow, wrestling with these questions, surrounded by water, suspended from the world for a brief hour, felt different.  I was able to grapple with them uninhibited by other thoughts and demands on my attention.  I was somehow able to come to peace with them.  Perhaps it was the cold, bringing laser sharp focus to my usually fuzzy, churning thoughts.  The misery of the cold made my emotional turmoil less tumultuous.  I had to focus on thinking instead of surrendering to the cold. Somehow, that cold water helped me come to peace differently than the warm, comfy water that I had surfed in Mexico over the summer.  The discomfort of the frigid water caused me to grapple a little more fervently.  

That wave I rode, it was the last wave we experienced together, me and my dad.  I don’t know how many waves we missed out on when I was a kid.  I’ll never know how many surf trips we would have had, if it weren’t for the divorce.  I do know, though, that because of the shortage, the years that were stolen, that last one meant more to me than he’ll ever know.  In some way that can only be miraculous, it felt like a million waves, a million memories, all wrapped up in one.