Have Dreams, Will Travel

SURFER GIRL

BY BROOKE PORTER

Forget "Für Elise." One of the first songs I learned to play on the piano was "Surfin' Safari" by the Beach Boys. After that, I moved on to "Surfin' USA," "Surfer Girl" and "California Girls." I was a 6-year-old girl growing up in Los Angeles, after all. Those early days of music lessons instilled in me a desire to bring those lyrics to life. And, growing up just minutes from the beach, the chance to live that laidback surfer lifestyle was there-but I never reached out and grabbed it because school, work and basketball (my calling at the time) got in the way.

During my last years in high school, a constant reminder of what I was missing was my friend Kristine. She had the same responsibilities as I did, but she still managed to wake up before school to catch the best waves. And to add insult to injury, she had the look: long-legged, blonde and tan year-round (the exact opposite of me). I remember going with her to a bonfire on the beach, meeting all her carefree friends and thinking, "Man, I really don't belong here-but I still could do this every night."

Ten years later, I still hadn't been to another bonfire. I still hadn't surfed. (And I still wasn't tall, blonde or tan.) But it was still something I wanted. So with the melody of "Surfer Girl" in my head, I boarded a plane bound for Florida. Destination: Cocoa Beach, the hometown of world champion surfer Kelly Slater.

My first lesson took place on a cloudless, unseasonably humid day. Matt, my instructor from the Cocoa Beach Surf Company, is a local by way of Oahu who says he was "born on a surfboard." After going over a few safety rules (look out for jellyfish and stingrays, among them), he shows me where to place my hands on the rail (the side of the board) and how to jump up. After a few successful attempts on dry land, we head for the water.

The next 40 minutes go something like this: lay down on board, wait for wave, get a push from Matt, attempt to stand, topple off board, choke on salt water, rinse, repeat. As I look at my pruned hands and try to shake what feels like a gallon of ocean out of my ears, I start to think I should have pursued my other lifelong dream instead (reading every book ever written). And even when I finally do ride a wave or two, I feel like it's just beginner's luck.

After waking up with sore ribs from laying on the board and bruises on my legs from falling off of it, I'm a bit nervous going into day two. This time, my instructor is Corey from the Ron Jon Surf School, a Cocoa Beach native and son of the school's founder, Craig Carroll. Once again, I'm in good hands.

The surf gods must have imparted me with some skills overnight, because I was unstoppable. Every time a wave came, I was up on the board and riding it to the sand-beaming from ear to ear the whole way. I even graduated to paddling into the waves by myself, without getting a push (although Corey still had to yell "Paddle, paddle, paddle… stand up!"). Despite being in the water, for a brief moment I was transported back to that bonfire, only this time I wasn't an outsider-pale skin, brown hair and short legs notwithstanding.