By Butch Freedman
Let’s start here: each morning that I wake up and I’m still breathing and mobile, I count as a win. After that, I go check out the surf from our back deck to see if conditions are okay for getting out on the water. Today the waves look too high, whipped around by the strong on-shore wind. I’d only get knocked around if I paddled out there. Still, I’m tempted. It’s been a few days and I’m getting antsy. I want to “get wet.” Surfing keeps me energized, clears my head. Makes me happy. When I’m out on the waves, I don’t think about anything else. It can be wild out there, or peaceful, but it’s always real. A whole lot more interesting than the TV and the news scrolls, and the recliner.
When I’m out in the surf, catching my breath, checking out the sets, looking for my ride, I can think of nothing else. I have to catch the wave as it’s breaking, get in front of it, paddle hard, then go. Sometimes I’m just not strong or fast enough. I find myself in that position often. I’ve heard other surfers refer to me as ‘that old dude’. I take it as a compliment. I’m 81, if you want to put a number on it. And not nearly as fit as I used to be. Four years ago I had spinal fusion surgery and was out of the water for about eight months. Couple year later a total right knee replacement, then the left one a year after that. Watching the waves every day and not being able to get in made me more fully understand both aging and yearning. I hope I can keep going for at least a few more years. I want to be the 85-year-old surfer.
Surfing for me has become a touchstone, a metaphor for trying to live a good life, despite the obstacles. The father of surfing, the great Duke Kahanamoku, said, “Be patient. Wave come. Wave always come.” Now he might have only been talking about a day on the water, waiting for that one good wave, but I think he meant more than that. I think the Duke was letting us know that all of life calls for patience. Stay cool, bide your time, look around, breathe. It’s all good, and if you hang on, the right wave will always appear and carry you in.
So, there I am, out beyond the first set of breakers. The beach looks far away, the occasional passersby appear tiny. My wave starts forming; I scuttle to get into position, and then I’m blasting off and down the face. The wave is breaking left as I drop in. Sometimes it’s like gliding down a glassy hill and I’m completely in control. Other times, the wave breaks me down rather than lift me up. Both equally exciting. But I don’t go out now when conditions are severe, when the waves are high and slamming. I’m happy with the smaller swells—my concession to age and fragility. You’ve got to know your limits if you want to survive.
I met a young surfer dude in Hawaii once who told me, “There aren’t any bad days on the water. There’s only good days and gooder ones.” Surfing has kept me sane so far. Through the pandemic, through uncountable years of that misfit asshole running the country into the ground, through my life. But maybe sane is too strong a word. Who knows what makes sense anymore? But I do know what makes me happy. And what makes that happen is staying connected, not giving in or giving up. Guess you can do that all sorts of ways—reading a good book or baking a blueberry pie, or talking to someone you like on the phone. It’s putting one foot in front of the other till you get to where you’re headed. Right now, I’m going down to the beach. Just gonna check it out. Maybe later I’ll take a nap. That works too.