Call Me Charlie

Issue 318

You guys,

I didn’t know what to expect when George tried surfing. There was much excitement from him in the days, weeks, and months, leading up to it—he was going to ride on top of waves!—but I didn’t know if he’d given any thought to what it would be like to sink beneath those waves.

It wasn’t until he was walking on the beach in his little wetsuit, his instructor carrying the large white surfboard that was connected to George’s ankle with velcro, that I felt for the first time in my body what my son must be feeling, too. The excitement, the adrenaline, the fear. Maybe that’s not what he was feeling but it felt like I was going out in the ocean with him, as him, through his 5-year-old eyes.

George has always been risk-averse and cautious, and on beach trips, when parents asked if we got nervous with him playing so close to the ocean, we answered no because you can’t get swept away in a current if you don’t go in past your ankles. I’m not sure where his excitement for surfing came from. Maybe it was a TV show or a book—we do all love when Pete the Cat goes surfing the first time—but when we asked George about which extra curricular activities he wanted to do after school he said, “I want to do all of them, but definitely surfing.”

I was surprised again when he volunteered to go out with the first group of kids, and held my breath when the first wave crashed over him, and again when it looked like the board hit him in the face. Each time I saw no reaction as he and his instructor moved further out, past more waves, until the instructor turned around and, keeping a hold of the tail-end of the board, followed George in on a wave. George stood up and put his arms out, looking like a real little surfer. I continued to watch them move out together and ride waves in, until one time, the instructor let go of the board, pushing George away from him, and George surfed until he fell off the board and disappeared beneath the water. He popped up, his eyes huge, coughing, and fairly quickly went back out again.

By the end I could see him getting tired, slower, and after a good final surf he stood on the shore pulling at the velcro on his ankle. His instructor approached, placing his hands on his knees and getting eye level with George. From far away I could tell he was asking, “One more?”

George stood up, panting, his little chest heaving, and nodded.

“I can’t believe they’re going out again,” I said to Sam. We were on the sand, taking videos and a million pictures, occasionally throwing a panicked glance over our shoulders to make sure Layla was still playing in the sand with her friend from school.

George was coming in, riding his last wave, his instructor far behind him. He was close enough to shore when he fell off his board but his legs were wobbly and he went under. His instructor caught up to him as he emerged, looking shocked and with a sour look on his face that told me salt water had gone up his nose, but he did not cry, and while his instructor carried the board they walked side-by-side out of the ocean.

As soon as George got near us, after the velcro was removed from his ankle, his face scrunched up into the silent before-cry and then he was sobbing and shivering. Sam and I wrapped him in his little blue Mickey Mouse towel and words of praise. “Buddy! You were amazing out there! We are so, so proud of you! Are you okay??” He answered with sobs and a few words to indicate that he swallowed salt water. I wondered if that last go was one too many, if he pushed too hard, if now, instead of loving surfing, he was traumatized by it. He kept crying and his teeth were chattering and I realized in that moment that my son had never really experienced being cold. I was always there after the shower, or the pool, or the beach, ready to wipe him down with a dry towel and put on clean, warm clothes, like his own personal pitstop team in a Nascar race to comfort.

I wanted George to do something hard and go beyond his comfort level but as he continued to cry I wondered if it was too much. I rubbed the towel on his shoulders and he caught his breath. “I want to do it again next week,” he said, and I bent down to see the tiniest smile on his face. Sam and I cheered and all the celebration that happened when George first came out of the water repeated itself, only this time George’s blue lips were smiling with ours.

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Until next week,

Charlie