Windsurfing

(June 19, 2011)

Preface: So I’m not really sure where this is going, although I do have a general direction to follow—it’s like chasing the wind, really, and that’s how it all begins.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve made some big life decisions on account of one thing: windsurfing. I found a new apartment close to Lake Travis and ended my stay in the first apartment I’ve ever rented for myself; I bought all-new advanced freestyle gear from the good folks at Worldwinds, to the tune of $3000; I gave up on my Saab obsession (and cash savings) in exchange for a new Volvo C30 due in August or September of this year; I have been responsible for a not-insignificant amount of traffic to the Lake Travis wind forecast at iWindsurf.com; and I have put just about every other aspect of my life on hold for now. What gives?

It’s hard to rationalize. Or maybe it was never meant to be rationalized. Windsurfing is a sport of feeling: you can think through the moves all you want, but in the end, if you know what it feels like, you can find it again, despite all the variables like temperature, wind speed, chop conditions, and your own board and sail. And when you don’t recognize the feeling, even though you know the steps in your head, it always feels like one thing and one thing only: impossible.

That left me wondering—what is the feeling that I was looking for over these past few months? And in making all these decisions so naturally, was there a feeling in there that I recognized? Was that feeling perhaps the familiar unfamiliarity of reinventing one’s identity? That would certainly be something I’ve done before, yet something was different this time… It wasn’t so much a reinvention of identity as a sharpening of identity. It is a focus that hasn’t been so regular or determined since my GPA-chasing days at Cornell. But that comparison fails for an important reason: in this episode, I don’t stress out much about anything.

Relaxation. It’s the essence of seeing the blue water against the rocky backdrop that forms the head of Lake Travis’s salamander body. The sunlight reflects off the rippling surface, made aware by the swelling gust. Adventure. It’s the core of a pilgrimage to the sandy shores of a barrier island laguna. The quiet waters are shaped by the ocean winds, and jellyfish—do they experience time?—take guidance as well. Excitement. It’s the surge of joy following a newly earned sense of mastery. But the glimpse of momentary perfection fades in light of the next challenge.

Something has changed in me. And it’s a philosophy that has blown over me bit by bit, moving each hair on my body leeward as it’s done so. Chasing this wind, I’ve come to see life differently for now. I realized recently that life has its own direction—maybe this likewise invisible force is time—and like the wind, it gusts and lulls. And like the wind, these gusts and lulls in life announce themselves only moments before they reach you.

As a sailor, I’ve learned to constantly look upwind to find out what’s coming next. If it’s a gust, I lean back, feel the wind fill my sail, transfer its pull through every nerve and fiber of my body, and for a few moments, help my board become master of the water. And if it’s a lull, I feel my sail de-power, as the last of the moving air spills out over the leech and rolls gently over the water into its next journey. I stand up straight, find my balance, and turn over my shoulder to see what lays in my immediate future.

Life has been very much like this: when life gusts, joy and opportunity knock on our doors, and we hold on and enjoy the ride. When life lulls, finding our balance is hard, but it is the key to letting us stay in motion, in preparation for the next gust.

In the past, before I understood the beauty and calm of a lulling swell, I would lose my balance, flail, and fall into the water. But as any sailor on Lake Travis can tell you, lulls are—wait for it—a fact of life. What a telling expression.

Being one such Lake Travis sailor, I’ve become intimately familiar with how to deal with these facts of life on the water, and I can’t help but notice that it’s carried over into my daily musings in subtle ways. I truly believe this: the wind forecast for my life is good. But the forecast only tells of an average, and within its scope, life will gust and lull. How I handle each of those—whether it is attitude, timing, strategy, determination, vision, experience, or countless other attributes—and how I handle each of those transitions, directly affects the quality of my outcome.

When my day gusts, I feel its energy in every part of my body; it is the meaning of being in the moment. I hold on, and ride it out as far as I need to. Sometimes the gust is over-powering, and it’s important to not get catapulted to the other side. We’re all susceptible to this. Stay low, sheet out, and find your way upwind while the opportunity presents itself. And sometimes you even want to stop in the middle of a gust and turn around, because it’ll get you back to where you were, but much faster than you would otherwise get there. Retracing our footsteps and revisiting places is not falling backwards—it’s progressing quickly in a familiar direction.

When my day lulls, I feel a sense of seriousness rising. Finding your internal balance is key, because no longer can you trust your sail—and consequently yourself—to be carried by the force of life. Things that used to rattle me before, I now see as a fair lull after an exciting gust. Stay on the board, stand up straight. Keep your focus but look upwind often and expect the next gust. It will come. In the meantime, fix what needs fixing; flush out the flaws that were easy to ignore when the wind was carrying you at fantastic speeds; practice new techniques that will set you up for a more impressive move when the gust finally comes again.

And of course, if you fall into the water, kick hard and fly your sail. The wind will pick you up soon enough.