Riding the Wave
When I was about 6 or 7 years old, I almost drowned.
(Maybe I am being dramatic, but it sure felt like I was going to drown at the time.)
My mother and I were visiting Hawaii for a family reunion. This day, just like most days, we went to the beach.
Unlike most days, which usually took us to the reef-protected Ala Moana beach in downtown Honolulu, we had driven to Oahu’s North Shore, where the waves were so high that surfers gather annually from all over the world to compete professionally.
We had found a little half-protected cove to swim in, but the waves were much stronger here than what is essentially a wading pool in Ala Moana. My older cousins were having a blast, playing around in the waves, and I was not about to be left out of the fun. There was only one boogie board among the three of us, but we took turns, and those of us who didn’t have the board just ended up body surfing.
I distinctly remember the roller-coaster sensation of letting my body be picked up by the ocean, bobbing up and down, higher and higher, then riding that wave as it fell towards the shore. I often landed in deep enough water that I could pop my head up, put my feet under me, then dive back into the water, ready for the next wave.
I was in heaven.
