Minnesota Surfer

I'm not really a surfer.

I have "surfed" - a lot. Actually, I've floundered - a lot. I used to live on the East Coast. Florida and then North Carolina. I spent years on the beach, helping to pay for a dermatologist's college education, body surfing, scuba diving and trying to learn to surf. I spent most of my time getting in other surfer's way, swallowing unhealthy amounts of sea water and learning to hold my breath for long periods at a time. I had an old 6'2" Rusty surfboard that once belonged to my brother, a true surfer. It had thick rails and floated nicely, but was sluggish and a little water-logged.

Whenever the waves would rise, I would paddle out and attempt to take at least one of them back to the shore. I struggled wave upon wave, never getting beyond that embarrassing half-stance we wanna-be surfers have turned into an bizarre art form. I usually stayed out an hour or so, then paddled in, chucked the board and went back out to body surf. I never got into boogie boarding.

These half-hearted attempts at surfing frustrated me, and my surf sessions grew shorter and shorter. Then one day, I moved away from the coast. That was over 15 years ago. But those few waves that I did catch, those few moments when I felt the water push me toward land, those short rides have stayed with me all these years.

Now that I think about it, I am a surfer. At least at heart.

These entries will capture my journey back up onto the waves. In Minnesota.