Hang 10

I grew up on a small dairy farm in Western PA (think 9/11 plane crash area and miners being rescued...that's where I lived). Summer vacations were few and far between, and weekend escapes to other houses were virtually only in the movies. Only some families made the trek to the beach-y area in summer, and then it was the talk of the school that fall. When I transferred to Philly my junior year in college, I could literally count the times I had stepped in the surf on one hand. Then I met Ted, who informed me he basically spent every weekend of each summer at the family house in Sea Isle. I was in awe.

For that reason, the beach will always hold something spectacular for me. While Ted enjoys it, it doesn't hold the same power over him that it does me--it is a long-awaited for treat, everytime we go, and my favorite part of the summer.

This past weekend, we headed down to Bethany Beach in Delaware. Ted's mother has a little trailer in a park down there where they spend their weekends. Yes, it was a little windy, and yes, the water was more than a little cold. But that didn't stop Ted's brother Dave from handing me his old surf board and a surf shirt--"You are learning."

After a quick lesson on the beach (I must have looked silly pretending to paddle in sand, but I like to think Dave looked even sillier, pretending to paddle in sand in a wetsuit), we headed out to the ocean (I have never had numb feet and a sunburnt face at the same time). "Okay, Maggie. Climb on the board." I laid on my stomach and Dave started out by positioning me towards the shore. His extent of teaching was this:
Dave: "When I say 'Go', start paddling. When I say 'Go' again, stand up."
Me: "But, Dave, when you say 'Go' the second time, does that mean--"
Dave: "Go, Maggie! Take this one!"
Me: "Take what? This one--oh! Oh, um...okay..."
Dave: "Stand! Stand!"
Me: *explicit comment*

After a few more go-rounds of this, we decided that I was comfortable enough that Dave could get his own board (I think he was mad because there were some good waves, even for Delaware, and I was doing a little more than floating over them).

We floated around a bit, had some good conversations about peanut butter and Smores and the video racing game we had played the night before (I created this kick-ass tricked out pink Hummer...I think I missed my true calling). I think that was my favorite part. I never actually stood on the board...I got on my knees a few times, which was really alot of fun. I flirted with the other surfing guys, who flirted back, until a big wave came and I panicked and made them fall off their boards, then they kind of stopped and went away.

That night, over Smores (yum) and family discussions about drunken neighbors, Dave asked me how I felt. I thought about it. My foot was cut somehow (I bled all over the beach), I had a bruise on my thigh, and a knot on my head from where the surf board wacked me when I was trying to carry it all cool-like. My arms were sore, and, becuase I had shaved that morning, my legs were covered in a painful, itchy rash from a combination of razor burn and salt/cold water against already-raw skin.

"Great." I told him. "Surf's up, Dude." I would have dropped some really cool surfer-speak, but didn't want to intimidate him.