Coffee spilled from our mugs as we drove over the big tree root at the end of the driveway. It happens every single time Eli and I go to check the surf in the mornings, with steaming cups of coffee we have filled to their very brim. And every single time, we laugh and say to each other that we need to get travel mugs without handles so that they'll fit into the cupholders in the truck.
We pulled up to the beach and walked to the edge of the dune, the half-full mugs of coffee now had dried drip stains running down their sides. It was a sparkly morning; the ocean bright and glinting, a fragment of sunlight in each wind-cut facet. Knee high waves broke and peeled along the edges of the broad, dry summer sandbars. The wind blew wisps of hair over our eyes as it moved gently and slowly from the warming land out to the green and blue ocean.
The swell was supposed to be bigger. The reports had us expecting lines of head high waves sweeping in from the south. There was a feeling of unmet expectations, that grumpy little kid sensation that comes up when you don't get what you think you want. We watched a moment, acknowledged the conditions, and reminded ourselves that we were standing at the very edge of the earth on a beautiful, calm, warm morning that began with homemade coffee and laughter. We have learned that the capacity for fun does not exist in direct proportion to the size of the waves.
“Should we go out?’
“Always.”
We surfed knee high waves for an hour in our bathing suits. The little waves would climb up from deep water, backlit by the low morning sun, their color shifting from deep green to the pale translucence of sea glass as they grew and broke over the bar. They would peak, sparkle, and burst into a cascade of white bounding across the still surface of the shallow water. We would catch the little waves with just a few paddles, crouch low on our boards and nestle right into the steepest spot, building speed, and glide across the little tiny green walls with an excitement and energy far bigger than the waves themselves. We ran our hands through the curling wave edge, fingertips skimming the surface. The soft, quilted texture of the sandbar, patterned like wind blown dunes in a desert whizzed past below our boards in the still, clear water.
We smiled and laughed, goofed off, fell down, and shouted to one when the other caught a wave. There was a simplicity and playfulness in the experience, a lack of pressure in the absence of any seriousness or consequence that allowed for a lighthearted and effortless presence of self. It was, in its purest form, play.
For me, the experience spoke to the very high importance of very small things. The shared morning coffee, the dune top checks, the embrace of laughter and playfulness. It served as a reminder that showing up and diving in is what makes each session, each day, full and rich. In surfing, as in life, we tend to put a lot of pressure and emphasis on gathering our joy and meaning from big waves. The days of big waves are few and far between. Life is filled with many, many more small wave days.
