Full of Far Away

Tune in each month as acclaimed writer Louise Rafkin takes us along on her wacky adventures, offering a tender and quirky look at places and faces around the world.






It's Never Too Late to Be a Surfer Chick I spent my youth on a beach in Southern California gazing out to sea, where my brother or my boyfriends surfed some of the best waves in the world. Clad in a string-bikini and puka shells, I carefully timed my tanning sessions and applied lemon juice to my sun-bleached hair, which insured me the identification of "surfer chick," even though I had never ridden a board.

In the 1970s, the world of the waves was mainly a male domain. Just about every male of any age in town seemed to be able to do it, even the ones who seemed to live entirely on caffeine, fast food, and a cornucopia of illegal drugs. Still, when it occurred to me recently that I might want to try this totally hip sport, I worried that despite my reasonably good health, above-average swimming skills, and fairly good balance, I might not -- at 40 -- be up to it. I asked my brother to opine. "You'll rip," Rocky assured me. "And it's never too late to learn."

As a kid I had been an ocean distance swimmer, though I gave that up years ago, not long after I saw the movie "Jaws." I am fairly fit, though certainly not in top form, and I stay in shape by practicing a combat-oriented martial art that I have studied for almost 15 years. I suppose my brother thought my prowess in the ring might translate to the waves. Still, when pressed, he pointedly declined to teach me. So I signed up for surf camp.



No Worries Surfing instruction comes in a variety of packages, from the two-hour group lesson to the week-long intensive. I opted for the latter and arrived full of black coffee, and uncertainty, at the Paskowitz Surf Camp near San Clemente, Calif., at 8 A.M. on a sunny morning.

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Other than basic swimming skills, hopeful surfers should possess a bit of upper body strength and a huge willingness to get tossed around in breaking waves. I figured I had at least a dollop of both.

That first morning the waves, glassy and breaking rather smallish, were covered with ant-like, wetsuit-clad surfers, each one seemingly an expert at slicing the long, blue tubes.

As younger campers -- some much younger -- were dropped out of BMWs and sports utility vehicles, I confessed my nervousness to Israel Paskowitz, the director of the camp, known locally as Izzy. "No worries," he replied, which turned out to be the surfer's mantra.

After donning a wetsuit, an act that seemed akin to stuffing a sausage, I trudged to the water's edge to join my people, a nervous group of about 25 -- ranging in age from about 8 to a dentist from Baltimore in his early 50's. There were four other female campers -- 13-year-old girls in full makeup.

Just as I came to the conclusion that I had made a terrible mistake, the head beach instructor, Terry Sims, a former longboard champion, launched into the opening diatribe on safety. Sims made sure everyone had basic ocean skills like the ability to dive under waves and swim, or even dog-paddle, through the surf. "And," he said, "turn upside down -- like a turtle -- with your board if you are about to be slaughtered by a breaking wave."

"Stand like this," Sims continued, demonstrating a long, low crouch, legs spread and backside in the air, a stance similar to that of a disgruntled stink bug. I was surprised that he thought we were going to stand at all. This stance, with knees deeply bent and back hunched slightly, works the upper legs and takes a little bit of quad strength, but it gives the beginning surfer a wide base to balance on.

Once longboard surfers have mastered standing and balancing, they pull their legs closer together and stand more or less upright. Each camper was called upon to copy Sims's example, and if successful, was whisked into the surf alongside a cheery instructor.

My heart started thumping inside my tightly bound ribs when I realized that the only ones of us not yet chosen were the girls, the two other old guys and me. "Reminds me of high school gym class," I murmured to the dentist who had surfed before and seemed not at all fazed by the whole brouhaha. Still, we wallflowers eventually demonstrated the kung-fu pose and within minutes I was -- well, struggling -- down the beach with an enormous board perched on my head.

Then, just as suddenly, I was belly down and paddling into actual surf. Campers flanked me on both sides. They looked like surfers paddling out through the shore-break, grimacing each time a wave broke over the nose of their boards.

Just as a primordial yelp started to rise up inside, I was hit by a crash of white water and my attention quickly turned to the horizon, where it stayed most of the morning. Right then I discovered the best thing about surfing: you can't think of anything else while doing it. Even when waiting for a wave, surfing requires full concentration.

The ocean was relentless. Waves broke constantly, close in or far out, and there was always paddling to do, lining up or striving for position.



Catch a Wave and You're Sittin' On Top of the World That first day the counselors swam among us while we learned the basics, including judging exactly where a wave would break. Often the wave would break and roll toward shore just yards away from a frantic paddler, leaving him or her behind, bobbing on the roiling sea.

Wonder of wonders, after three ungraceful wipeouts, I was standing -- yes, hunched over -- but actually riding a wave. I heard a chorus of whoops as I made for shore, but then I went down. I quickly floundered up onto my board. Yahoo! I had popped up into the stink-bug pose just as Sims had modeled, but once up I straightened up too quickly and lost my balance. Or maybe I was just so excited about standing up, I fell off. No matter, I was already paddling back.

Several hours later, my shoulders were sore from paddling, and they would only get worse by week's end, as would my obliques (the muscles above my hip bones) from hoisting myself onto the board. But because of all the wipeouts, I'd been tossed around a fair bit and my body felt loose and amazingly invigorated.

Over lunch, Dorian (Doc) Paskowitz, the 78-year-old camp founder whose body looks like that of a man 40 years younger, read from his book Surfing and Health. He believes the two go hand in hand, and the self-published book chronicles the last 50 years of his globetrotting surfing life.

Paskowitz, father of the camp's director, Israel, told me he still surfed nearly every day. He pointed toward a figure launching into the surf. "He's 83," he announced. "Hell, compared to him, I'm young!" I discovered later that the 83-year-old could not lie prone on a board because he wore a colostomy bag, so he paddled sitting up. That afternoon I watched him slide easily down the face of perfect three-footer.

After the two-hour afternoon session I was nearly delirious and could barely grip my board. Deeming myself a danger to the village, I slogged up the beach to find our waterlogged group, buoyant and chummy, full of camaraderie as if we had all just survived some disaster.

But there had been no disaster. Everyone was, to put it aptly, stoked. My ankle was bleeding where a divot the size of a golf tee had been gouged by the fin of my board, but other than that and bone-deep exhaustion, I felt great. By the end of the week I was skilled enough to go off on my own.

I ordered myself a board, and have made several solo surfing safaris. Each time I've been out, whether successful or not, in good surf and in bad, I have walked out of the water feeling fabulous.

And this week I am headed back to San Clemente for a Thanksgiving weekend surf-a-rama. Finally, I'm a surfer chick, though perhaps chick is pushing it.