My brother keeps calling me from Costa Rica to brag about his surfing exploits, and it has created a real dilemma for me.
“I caught this huge wave today. It was so sick,” he’ll say, his enthusiasm so uncontainable I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “All my buddies were hollering and whistling. It was the best moment of my life.”
I was the one who taught him how to surf, back when I was living in San Diego. I remember how awkward he was, arms flailing wildly, eyes wide with fear as he would paddle into a wave too late and get pitched over the falls. I would watch his board fly into the air and chuckle to myself because I knew he was taking a pounding (albeit harmless) under the whitewater. Sure enough, he would come up gasping for air, humbled by the power of the ocean. He was out of his element – just as I had been – a mountain boy at the beach.
It took me a long time to overcome that, to become comfortable in the ocean and learn how to deal with the ever-changing dynamic of the surf. It also took me a long time to acclimate to the culture of Southern California (or should I say lack thereof), to be in a place chock-full of drop-dead gorgeous women with perfect bodies. I always felt there should be a sign at the state line: “You need to be this tall to ride this ride,” about being 5-feet-8 with fake breasts and no body fat.
It took me seven years to figure out I definitely belonged in Colorado. So I came home. But surfing is another story.
Being a surfer girl was this whole side of myself that I left behind when I moved back to the mountains. Now that it’s summer and my brother is living at a surf spot full time, I’m forced to re-evaluate that perennial dilemma between the mountains and the beach.
It’s like falling in love with two guys and trying to decide which one is better for the long term. Even when you know it’s not right, it’s still hard to let go. And it’s not just about a place to live. There’s a whole identity, a whole lifestyle associated with it that defines who you are. I loved the idea of the carefree, barefoot surfer girl with sun-bleached hair and a taut body, changing beneath a towel on the street behind the tailgate of her car.
Despite my little beach goddess fantasy, I am definitely a mountain animal. I love the snow, the geography and the seasons. I love the people – especially the guys (anyone who has dated a surfer can appreciate a sweet, scruffy mountain boy). But I have to say, I miss the sultry, sweet air and the way my hair gets all curly from salt water. When I dived under that first wave, my hair would flow behind my weightless body, hands gripping the rails tight, my back arched, following the bubbles toward the surface and that precious gulp of air. I love to open my eyes under water and watch the wave roll over me from underneath like a huge barrel, rays of sunlight filtering through the depth like one of those cheesy oceanscape paintings.
I miss wearing sun dresses and board shorts and walking around in my bikini top all day. I long for the pungent, sticky, sweetness of a mango, and produce that’s flavorful and colorful and plump instead of puckered and sad. I miss fresh fish that doesn’t come wrapped in seaweed with a $50 price tag.
I also envy my brother for having the guts to move to a foreign country, a place that forces you to open up in ways you never expected. He’s learning Spanish, a language that affords three very specific ways to say “I love you” so you can open your heart and be understood. I envy him for living what Costa Ricans call “la vida pura” or pure life, where cellphones don’t always work and there’s conversation instead of cable, interaction instead of Internet. I miss being able to paddle out to an infinite horizon that knows nothing of my life and the troubles I’ve left behind, where the only thing that matters is the next set of waves as they stack up in the distance, thinking maybe this time I’ll catch the right one.
But then I walk outside and see the infinite peaks that surround me, and I am reminded why I chose the mountains. My sea of possibilities is right here.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
