When 'the other woman' is the ocean
By Christi Macaluso
Special to The Palm Beach Post
Sunday, May 27, 2007
We don't have surfers in Ohio. My idea of a surfer was a composite
of characters from old Gidget reruns on Nick-at-Nite and the film Point
Break- all of whom appealed to me, incidentally.
Surfers were always handsome and tanned, with tousled, sun-bleached hair, a free spirit and a conspicuous lack of pretension.
Imagine my intrigue when, on vacation 13 years ago, I met a guy in
a Delray Beach restaurant and discovered through the course of
conversation that he was a surfer.
Not that he simply liked to surf - he was a surfer.
The distinction might seem like semantics to some, but I assure you
the difference is profound. As attracted to him as I already was, I
immediately became more so. We went on a date, and I couldn't wait to
tell girlfriends back home that I'd been out with a surfer. He
satisfied all my Hollywood-inspired fantasies: He was handsome; he was
tan; his hair was often disheveled when not at work (and sometimes even
when he was), and he was infinitely free-spirited and unpretentious.
The story of our six-month, long-distance courtship can be summed
up as follows: Despite the fact that I was enrolled in and ready to
begin college that fall, I wasn't buying textbooks in September.
I was packing clothes and framed photos of grandma and best friends
into Jack the Honda and kissing my dad and my scholarship goodbye as I
began the 18-hour drive to South Florida to see what would come of my
relationship with the surfer.
I couldn't say exactly when the high-gloss finish of my Point Break
fantasy began to tarnish. It probably began when my surfer guy showed
up dripping wet in board shorts with bare, sandy feet for our evening
together.
I was puzzled when he had to interrupt and rewind beach scenes in
the movies we rented - not because he'd missed a piece of dialogue but
to check out the wave breaking in the background.
I failed to understand the necessity of inconvenient drives by the
beach when we had other plans, just so he could see what he was
missing.
I noticed that I became invisible and mute before him when a surf
video was playing in the vicinity. I realized he couldn't get out of
bed in the morning to go to breakfast, but he could easily get up
before dawn on three hours' sleep if the waves were accommodating.
When things got more serious and we started discussing the future,
I was pleased to know that he, like me, wanted to experience life in
different parts of the world, but perplexed to find that our list of
possible destinations was confined to the perimeters of continents.
Don't worry - this is not a break-up story.
This is a story of a starry-eyed girl from the Midwest who found
out, over the course of many years, that surfing might be a pastime for
some - but for surfers, it is something they are.
At times, I've called it his addiction; at times, I've considered
it "the other woman." I've gotten mad; I've gotten jealous; I've
actually taken a whack at his board with my shoe. (I know the surfers
out there are cringing in disbelief.)
But I've also discovered that when he comes home from a good
session in the ocean, he's in an excellent mood - he's lighthearted and
frisky and carefree. I've found that he has an incredible respect for
the sea, and an impressive knowledge of marine life and tides and
weather systems.
He's a lover, not a fighter - unless you happen to cut him off on a
wave. I've learned that my man possesses the enviable talent of being
able to change from work clothes to baggies in the middle of a busy
parking lot with nothing but a towel for cover and nary a butt cheek to
be seen.
I've learned some personal lessons as well. I now know the
difference between Point Break and a genuine surf flick. I know the
difference between wind chop and swell, a fish and a big gun, a grom
and a kook.
Most importantly, I've learned that my surfer guy - who has been my
surfer husband for the past nine years - just wouldn't be who he is if
he weren't a surfer.
He has more than compensated for any time he left me disappointed
because an ample swell unexpectedly made it to the shores of South
Florida. He treats me like a princess. He gets giddy when he takes the
kids to the beach.
I love to hear him describe how he almost made that wave, what it
felt like in the barrel, how peaceful he feels when he's out there in
the lineup. I'm convinced there is saltwater flowing in his veins.
I still hate feeling the grit of sand under my feet in the shower,
and finding wet baggies dripping in my dirty clothes basket, and
encountering melted wax on the seat of my car, but I know it comes with
the territory when you are in love with a surfer.
And I would never again whack his board with my shoe; those things are expensive, and we share a checking account.
Christi Macaluso is a stay-at-home mom to three children, ages 4, 2
and 10 months. The family lives in Boynton Beach ... and at the beach.
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