Monday, November 25

dumped: a free-love story (part 3)

now no cheating. so if you're just checking in now, you have to go back two posts and read from the beginning! 

3. sooner than later

it was a schoolgirl crush-come-true as i held you tight from behind, our helmets in close conversation, my hair tangling long in the fast wind around the curves. six years of waiting in the wings of our more-than-friendship while your serial girlfriends took center stage, it was finally my turn.

you picked up the pieces from my freshly broken nose; i wove the stitches in your heart on the mend. you laughed at the hospital when i tried to will my crooked bones straight; i cried on the picnic blanket when i felt your tired soul still raw in your chest. 

our bodies liked eachother. a lot. our minds and hearts did, too. they still would, i think. if we had let them. maybe if i wanted what you wanted - a beautiful life, the security of stability, comfort in New England – we’d be each other’s dream come true. i still wanted to feel it though, even when i knew it would end. it was perfect in impossibility. 

“thank you for all the love,” you said when i left.

you went home to your family in winter, settling in. i shopped plastic surgeons in the tropics, surfing instead.

i visited you once there, too. 

the fire in us made the snow feel warm when my toes went numb in your white wonderland. i met your friends; the quirky bookstore, the local coffee shop where everybody knew your name. your mom made us dinner with the turmeric i had brought as a gift; your dad was impressed by our conversation, your arm around my shoulder. you liked how i felt there with you.

my suitcase slept in your brother’s empty room.

“come see me again soon,” you said as i left, our twenty-four hours of wintry bliss winding down to seconds at the station. i was eager to feel like this with you again.

when I got home, i booked a flight.

a few days later, you changed your mind.

i knew it would end sooner or later, but when you chose sooner, i had still been betting on later.

sad in understanding, i wandered Boston alone.

*******

2. but what about the moonlight?

your face was my vision in the sweat lodge on the full moon. dark skin, wide nose, thick lips, long dreds braided down your back. of course it was a sign of cosmic validation when i saw your missed calls, text messages asking me where i was. it was probably the exact same moment you were on my mind as i dripped hot sweat into the cool, prickly earth. we’re that connected. i was ready for us to be together. you felt ready to me, too.

i made you soup when you were sick. and ginger tea with lemon and honey. you came over for dinner like every night for a week. we watched bad movies and i rubbed your back on the couch. i really liked your skin on my skin. and we’d make a beautiful baby someday. we still might, actually.

i was excited to tell you how i felt.

but you folded first; my cards forever hidden in my hand. 

“i don’t want to hurt you,” you said, pushing tofu to the side of your plate of mystery vegetables soaked in low-sodium soy.

i was confused. i thought things were going well, like we’d finally made that transition from soul-friends-with-benefits to soul-mates forever and ever. it would be nice if our future rasta baby had parents who loved each other and lived happily ever after. i liked how that story went.

“i could never fall in love with you,” you said.

i smiled. i almost laughed. i wanted to cry.

“why’s that?” i asked, intrigued more than anything.

i thought you’d say something along the lines of “i like you better as a friend.” or “i only believe in true love, One Love Jah Bless.” that would have made sense.

instead, you said, in the simplicity of all seriousness:

“we eat different food. you hate TV. and you don’t like air conditioning.” you wanted carne en salsa, flat screens, surround sound and subzero in the bedroom.

this time i actually laughed.

then i cried. in the pool. by myself. just me and the moonlight.

i hoped you’d be gone by the time i went back inside. instead, you were on my couch skype-ing your internet girlfriend you had known for like a week.

by then, i was all out of tears. i really, really, really, really wanted you to leave.

unimpressed by my passive, cold shoulder silent treatment, you said to me: “you still have a long ways to go, Tara.” you meant spiritually.

i meant get the fuck out. like now.

Sunday, November 24

dumped: a free-love story (continued)

4. day zero

i met you on my birthday at the Malcom X drum circle, beckoning you in my divine visualization across the sea of dancers, my yellow jeans fancy-free in Sunday afternoon.

“i’m Tara,” i said.

“of course you are,” you replied, tiger eyes glowing in intrigue. “Tara, goddess, you are devi,” you said to me, “dancing us all into the light.” i melted into your spiritual poetry.

10 minutes later, we had known each other for millennia. 

you were the most unique circus of a person i had ever met – yoga, surf, capoeira, thai massage, stunt acting, intellectual, entrepreneur, urban, suburban, travelled, spiritual, cultured, interesting; interested. 15 years my senior, your experience and passion a lesson in every conversation, i mostly listened.

you liked my touch, the chemistry in our spirits.

we braved DC’s version of the hurricane for breakfast, present in each other’s gaze as the wind howled. oblivious to those around us, hours passed in seconds. later, we sought shelter from the storm in warm embrace. mesmerized, i was into you, but something in me wasn’t. i couldn’t put my finger on it, but i was invested to find out.

it was a weeklong romance ripe with possibility, the two of us nomads by destiny, content to float like feathers in the wind.

“come to Mexico with me for Mayan 2012,” you said before I left. i had been planning to go anyway, of course. we started planning the trip, and then your visit to Costa Rica, and then our travels to Bali.

“i keep looking at travel magazines,” you told me. “and all i think about is where would Tara like to go?” i would have gone anywhere.

weeks passed and i still hadn’t booked my flight. you had passport issues postponing your trip. i broke my nose in Colombia and spent the solstice at home. you went, and we lost touch.

nearing the first of the year, i finally heard from you.

“i met my mate on Day Zero,” you wrote me, letting me down graciously, grateful to me for opening your heart to the possibility of soul-level connections you had written off in years past. 

i smiled when i read your words, happy for you. and not that sad for me, really. i now understood my inexplicable hesitance when we were together: you were a beautiful fantasy of my own design; a ghost, fleeting by nature, impossible to hold. 

my soul content in knowing you again, my heart didn’t resist letting you go.

Saturday, November 23

dumped: a free-love story

when i tell people i’ve been dumped six times this year, the reactions are diverse - ranging from sorrow (oh no, sweetie, are you okay?) and scorn (nobody dumps YOU, what’s wrong with these guys? they must be total losers!) to shame (well, what are you doing wrong?) and sisterly support (at least you’re putting yourself out there, girl!). strangely, i can’t relate to any of these sentiments, and instead i almost celebrate the many times i’ve been dumped as a constant practice of love-and-let-go; validation of the free love philosophy i have been cultivating in recent years. i’ve found the lessons revealing, the love meaningful and fulfilling, the loss oftentimes heartbreakingly real. but instead of closing my heart up more and more with each successive ending, i think it’s helped open me up more to letting love in and not being scared of the inevitable pain in letting go. i would never forego the fleeting moments of eventual sadness if it meant forsaking the bliss of heartfelt connection with those i’ve loved and let go, this year and always. you never know when it will end, or how, but someday it will, and that’s okay. just because you know it will end, doesn’t mean you can’t love it while it’s there. sometimes, you love it even more. 

in High Fidelity, Rob gives us his “all-time desert-island top 5 most memorable break-ups”. in keeping with that tradition, and because everybody loves a good top 5, here are my top 5 most memorable break-ups of the year: free-love lessons from my heart to yours.  

5. the district sleeps alone

“i’d rather talk to you than sleep with you.” not exactly the words you want to hear from the adorable object of your affection while he’s buying you drinks at the bar. he thought it was a compliment. i wasn’t thrilled, but decided that was better than the alternative.

he made my trips to DC exciting and romantic, our chemistry magnetic and fiery from the start. we could talk for days.

his family’s Christian values made me seem exotic; my mind appealed to his thirst for debate, solution. i thought he lived a little too inside-the-box, a fun challenge for me to break him free from his chains of right-and-wrong and rigid sense of obligation to duty. i loved his smile, bright with innocence and wonder.

he took me to lunch for my birthday. 

he’ll be a great doctor, i remember thinking, embarrassed by my eggs florentine to his vegan ravioli as i looked at him across the table.

and an amazing father.  

he was everything i wasn’t looking for.

we walked together downtown to our separate activities; his a med school lecture, mine a book release at the US Institute of Peace.

we met later on his study break at a friend’s, pausing for a kiss hello, awkward in novelty. we planned our next sleepover – how DC of us. before he left the apartment, we looked at our reflection together in the mirror.

“couple of the year!” he said, grinning. my reflection raised her eyebrows. i had to admit, we looked good.

“couple of the week?” i wanted to slurp my words back in as they dribbled down my chin. fuck.

my reflection took an interest in the carpet.   

i saw him again at a friend’s birthday dinner; he eyeballed my steak and ate grilled portobellos. he left early to study for exams. we kissed goodnight.

there were no more sleepovers.

“i’ll give you some of my sweet Shiva nectar, baby.” i texted him some racy Hindu humor from Baltimore, my chakras glowing from a spiritual weekend of chanting meditation with the legend Baghavan Das filling my soul with mantra delight.

no response. no explanation. i didn’t need one, i guess.

weeks later i wrote him to clear the air, hoping we could manage a friendship.

nada.   

now, a year later, he’s engaged to be married. i imagine she’s everything he’s been looking for.

…i bet her nectar is sweet.

----------------

Monday, October 7

case of the mondays


sweating off my stress-induced brownie overdose,
i chose between the woman
who killed her own mother,
and the hot blonde detailing the ins and outs
of the months and years
of her kidnapping, rape and torture
by strangers,
both in high definition,
for my evening entertainment pleasure.

at least they're playing n'sync on the radio,
14-year-old me smiled at the silver lining.
(so had the blonde on TV).

all of us were white.
half of us had obvious eating disorders
in our castle of privilege in the sky
with diamonds.

after 30 mins. on the treadmill,
i've gained 4 lbs. in 2 months.
...it's not muscle.

it's just me,
wild and free.
in
Merica, the beautiful.

Sunday, August 11

home for a nomad: a thank-you note


home is where the heart is...

...or so they say

and i tend to agree. but what if your heart is in a zillion different places simultaneously, intertwined with the hearts of hundreds of souls scattered in cities and suburbs and jungle lands and beach towns everywhere? in your case, creating a tangible sense of home becomes a daunting undertaking despite deep desires to nest, to grow roots somewhere, anywhere. the inescapable plight of the modern-day nomad, whose physical home may change with the tides, leaving in her sea-foam wake a trail of existential angst, twinges of nostalgia for what might have been (if only…); but whose heart, it turns out, is most at home in wandering.
……

“está bien. i’ll check your second bag for free.” i looked up from my disheveled mess in disbelief, shoes and toiletries strewn about the shiny marble tile. it wasn’t a common phrase in any language, let alone airline-speak. especially when the contents of your makeshift 32-pound second bag once inhabited the magical space above the top layer of your already-stuffed first bag, zippers bursting at the seams after twenty minutes of sweating the thing closed, chafed knuckles from the spots where strain met coarse fabric head-on. it’s a two-person job, really.

grateful, i graciously accepted and smiled sweetly, repaying him for his unprecedented kindness in innocently seductive eye contact. stoked that i had narrowly evaded the $200 he originally threatened, i was also embarrassed in a way that irked my soul: what kind of self-proclaimed nomad stuffs 82 pounds of worldly possessions into a giant roller bag for a three-month adventure? even if this adventure was technically work-related and i’d packed everything i own resembling ‘business casual’, plus the usual warm-weather suspects since it’s summertime, and an array of atypical cold-weather cover-ups for chilly-breezy San Diego eves, and an old pair of CFM heels just in case; still, there was no excuse. i was weighing myself down both physically and spiritually with stuff, and now that i scored a freebee at the check-in counter and watched my bag disappear on that filthy luggage belt, there was no turning back. he should have charged me that $200; teach a faux nomad a lesson in letting go. to add even further insult to auto-criticism of nomad self, the Chilean hitch-hiker chick i picked up in Hermosa en route to the airport had been travelling for two years with only a small backpack in tow. now that’s what i call freedom. gracias, Chilena citizen of the wind, rub it in a little deeper. (nomad self itching to crawl into giant suitcase in backseat and die.)

fortunately for my soul, if not for my tired limbs, lugging all that shit onto public buses, in taxis and through the unforgiving New York City subway system might have been the karmic lesson i had been looking for. so i’ve started getting over it after making a pact with myself that whatever i don’t use on the trip i have to give away to someone who needs it. since then, i’ve been spending time honoring rather than criticizing nomad self by celebrating some of the other joys of being the wanderer i have come to be. embracing the chosen privilege to get lost to get found, to find joy in the freedom of not knowing what tomorrow will bring, nearly a year of heart-and-soul-felt experiences bouncing between loaned beds and borrowed cars in cities and surf spots from New York to Medellin. 

i’d done my fair bit of wanderlust traveling in the past, but this year has felt different. aside from a few surf trips, i haven’t wanted strangers in strange lands, solo adventures lacking roots or purpose. much to my surprise (oh god, this must mean i’m getting old), my wanderings have taken a turn for the familiar, letting my lonely heart, rather than my insatiable curiosity, guide me on my path to where i'm going. wanting to be near and with the people i love who i don’t get to see very often, i’ve spent the year being present in the lives of friends and family, many times coincidentally arriving just in time for exciting events as if by divine serendipity. births, deaths, graduations, moon celebrations, birthdays, engagements, weddings, spiritual workshops, winter wonderlands, anniversaries, concerts, motorcycle trips through the Andes, boats, trains, planes, bath-time with my babies, comings and goings, falling in love, getting dumped, camping in the rain, blogging, publishing, sweat-lodging, surf-tripping, joyful welcomings, tearful goodbyes. it’s been a mixed bag of emotions to say the least, but i can say with a clear conscience that it’s been life lived from the heart.

while content in my nomad travels and joyful that i’ve been able to spend time in familiar places with those i love, this rootlessness weighs on me in an indescribable way. i find myself praying for stability, for a sense of home, for building myself into and becoming part of a community that grows with and alongside me, even something as simple as living somewhere for longer than a week or a month maybe, instead of living out of a suitcase and changing direction like a lost honeybee in the springtime. The word HOME took center stage on my vision board last month. 'create a sense of home' is my long-standing new year's resolution for like half a decade. my yoga intention has been HOME for months now, ironic when my morning practice might find me flowing and OM-ing on different continents from one week to the next. 

it’s like this grasping for something that keeps getting further and further away. as much as i’m craving home, my nomad reality doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon. upcoming commitments with the inspiring Women PeaceMakers Program here in San Diego, an exciting opportunity for global peacebuilding at the GAMIP Summit inSwitzerland in September, 14 months of pending doctoral research in four communities in Ecuador and Bolivia slated for next year, a leadership role on surf tourism development courses in Costa Rica and Fiji; these are the new purpose-driven nomad adventures igniting my soul today as i envision them all coming to fruition, becoming the person i am through my soul-driven journey to all corners of the globe. i embrace these challenges rather than shy away, yet i visit friends’ and strangers’ homes and i envy them, all of their beautiful art on the walls, their own dishes, closets, framed pictures of loved ones on the coffee table, something cooking on the stove, cushy pillows, magnets holding to-do lists on the fridge. their own unique slice of safe haven, a place to rest and be. i want that. i pray for home and i get at least three more years of inspired nomad in my foreseeable future.

for nearly a year now, i’ve been gainfully unemployed – writing, reading, surfing, loving, living; a stint of life now coming to an end as i embark upon a new professional journey in Southern California – nine-to-five, NPR in traffic, longboard waves, writing, loving, living. i was tired from the cross-country flight to my new reality. but as the plane landed at LAX last week, something crazy donned on me like a little Taser jolt to the brain: i was going home.   

...in a way. 

i had spent ten of the most formative years of my life in this place, longer than i’d lived anywhere in my quarter-century or so of earthliness, despite feeling like i was fresh off the boat, culture shocked in my own native land. but i guess if we’re going by the numbers, this new journey was actually a sort of homecoming to a place that now felt foreign and familiar at the same time. driving through the Valley, recognizing exit signs, street corners, preschool, penguin ice cream shop here, thai restaurant there, overpass where the homeless lady we gave red grapes to used to live, the spot where the old bowling alley used to be where i’d spent countless days with my dad when i was mini, trying to bowl a strike to earn my giant slice of chocolate cake from the deli that used to be down the street. a de-ja-vu slew of memories you never knew you had; a sense that what was is not what is now. and it certainly isn’t who you’ve become today. another lifetime with your memory flashes as glimpses into a past that doesn’t even feel like yours. a movie playing on your retina where you can eerily predict what happens next. a puppet master directing somebody else’s show.  

but in all of its estranged familiarity, parts of it do feel like home. especially the new-old parts. reminiscing and welcoming newfound kinship with family i usually only see on very special occasions; deepening friendships with faces i’ve known for years but whose authentic humanness i am now experiencing anew.

“do you think you’ll ever settle down somewhere? have a real home someday?” my brother-in-law Jon and fake cousin Leah asked the same question on separate days from separate coasts.

“i have absolutely no idea.” and i really don’t. and that should totally freak me out, right?

reflecting on a year of heart-filled wandering, and celebrating my temporary SoCal homecoming of sorts, i discover that i’m surprisingly at ease, unknowingly testing out a new life hypothesis: home for a nomad. because for the nomad (including self-critical faux nomads like me), maybe when your heart is full, home is everywhere you happen to find yourself in any given moment. you are home. and thanks to the generosity and compassion of friends and family, today i’m not worried about when or if i’ll finally ‘settle down’ and stretch my roots into the Earth. 

right now, in this second, with a full heart and renewed zest for living, all i am is gratitude.

gratitude for those who have helped me and loved me on my journey home.

...thank you. 

Monday, July 22

flow: a gift of feeling

three drops? that's it? you have got to be kidding me. i just came off a week-long colon cleanse, i haven't eaten sugar, wheat or dairy in nearly a month, and i'm fermenting enough kombucha in my kitchen to eradicate cancer in a two-mile radius. how on earth could this be happening? discouraged, frustrated, and now a little more than concerned, i didn't bother flushing. not that anyone would have noticed.

what started as slight water retention and a feeling that i couldn't quite relieve myself fully, had now become serious and i couldn't pee at all. my urine test had come back 'completely normal' with no sign of infection, so technically (in Western medicine mumbo jumbo) there was nothing wrong with me. right. tell that to my throbbing kidneys and swollen bladder kicking and screaming for someone to open the fucking floodgates.

once i told her my pee test was inconclusive, the pharmacist denied me any medication and told me i had a 'serious medical condition' and needed to go see the doctor. i pleaded with her to let me try the anti-bacterial elixir that might do the trick if i had a bladder infection, and she finally relented. she told me to take one packet and that if i didn't start feeling relief in an hour, i should go straight to the clinic. come on pee-pee potion, let's make magic; mama don't wanna spend the night on dialysis in the creepy clinic.

earlier in the day i had sought refuge in my chakra workbook, hoping a more holistic understanding of what's going on in my bod might shed some light on the subject (or at least provide some quality bathroom reading while i sat chest-over-thighs praying for a miracle). Kathy Pike, author of Pathways to a Radiant Self: A Journey of Growth and Discovery with the Chakras, identifies the second chakra, svadhisthana, as the energy center corresponding with the lower abdomen, the fluids of the body, the bladder, kidneys, sexual and reproductive organs, and the lymphatic system. if the second chakra is blocked or out of balance, these are the areas of the body where we will experience pain or other physical symptoms. Earmarking the pages with my toes, I was all ears.

"Orange is the symbolic color of the second chakra and the element is water.... [it] provides you the space to explore your ability to feel and understand your emotions, your ability to flow in life.... A balanced second chakra in the human body will reflect a person who is in touch with his/her feelings and a person who has the ability to flow in all aspects of his/her life."

"The tears, the fluids of your body, release and flow as the emotions are expressed and the energy is shifted. Being in touch with and expressing your emotions is a key aspect of the natural flow of your being.... Unrecognized emotions and feelings can cause tidal waves and hurricanes in your inner being as they swell and you resist them. This pattern creates a situation in which you may isolate yourself repeatedly from your feelings or people who ignite these feelings, until the force behind the motions becomes unmanageable, like an inner tsunami. Leaving the tsunami untamed allows its power to grow and grow. The resulting dynamic is an inner struggle and frustration that requires an enormous amount of energy to control, and keep at bay, on a continual basis. This energy turns back into the body and the soul creating a deadening of the spirit that may result in sickness or disease.... These emotions are waiting to be released. The resistance to releasing the emotions can often feel bigger than the emotion itself. If you resist, you stop the flow of your life energy."

so if i was reading this right, i had been resisting feeling and releasing my emotions to the extent that my second chakra was so blocked that i literally could not flow.

as a surfer and a writer, flow is obviously something i care about, and i had to admit that both had been feeling a bit off in the past few weeks. i hadn't had much desire to surf, and when i did, i'd felt overwhelmed by panic and anxiety, freaking myself out and falling all over the place. my writing was equally sloppy and it took hours to create mediocre paragraphs that should have taken minutes. aware of this, and now drawing a cognitive connection to the flow-feelings relationship, its ability to manifest in the very ailments i was experiencing, and the need to 'feel my feelings' as the way to unblock my second chakra, somehow i became hopeful that if only i could get a grasp on some deep feelings i had been resisting, i would be able to flow, in all senses of the word. i didn't know what that meant, but i was determined to find out.

i started by identifying present feelings - frustration, fear and anger related to my health concerns and a new sense of conviction that i was going to beat this thing no matter what. in my chakra book, it says that the ocean and movement of the body can help get things flowing again, so lucky for me i'm living beachfront and the swell was peaking today. i paddled out with a vengeance, now on a surf-warrior mission to get my flow back. besides, i'd be damned if my last surf session on earth before dying of kidney failure was anything short of spectacular. i paddled into my first wave with a full-on sense of purpose, standing up fast and pumping down the line, surprised at my renewed fearlessness and lack of hesitation in overhead surf. second wave, same deal. cool and confident, celebrating feeling like me again, splashing off the top and putting some extra oomph in my bottom turn. i'm back.

i came in stoked, a feeling i hadn't felt in a while, to be honest, despite surfing frequently in decent conditions. maybe that means things are starting to shift, that i'm getting back into the flow. i hurried into the bathroom to try my luck. i sat there for a minute, straining uncomfortably... fruitlessly.

fuck. i guess it's not quite so simple. feel my feelings - but how? and what feelings? one thing i refused to acknowledge was unfortunately glaring me in the face, and i finally let it enter my mind once i had reached this low point of exhausting all other possibilities: i had been dreaming about him again despite my best intentions not to, waking up grumpy almost a month now after telling him i thought it best we stop communicating, again. oh god, anything but feel those feelings for the thousandth time. i had put those feelings in a box and thrown away the key, remember? long gone and buried forever. and i was so over it that i wasn't about to let svadhisthana make me dig those skeletons up again.             

defeated and deflated (unfortunately only figuratively), i drank the pharmacy elixir of life and started watching Silver Linings Playbook to take my mind off not peeing and not feeling. I sipped my parsley tea, dosed myself with homemade herbal tincture, and wrapped a bright orange scarf around my second chakra to try and get things moving. maybe if i mix their medicine with my own, something is bound to do the trick. i was enthralled in the flick and hadn't thought much about my bladder until the halfway point when i realized i still hadn't peed and i was past the fateful 1-hour mark after taking the medication. i took a deep breath and stuck it out, promising myself i'd drive to the clinic as soon as the movie ended. i couldn't just leave and never find out if he gets back with his cheater wife or falls for the crazy awesome dancer chick. with no untimely potty breaks (my own 'silver lining', perhaps), i watched it through to the end, content to learn he picks the gloomy crazy one and they live happily ever after in all of their dysfunctional real-ness.

then i cried for an hour.

then i wrote this in a stream of consciousness:

still trying to fill the gap you left. with whatever i possibly can. getting skinny, getting fat. spending savings on undetectable illnesses my body has created to remind me how resentful i am, how damaged this whole relationship has left me. for the person i loved with everything to tell me he won't even try to make it work after everything i've given and forgiven. every ounce of soul - for what? all my dreams are coming true. where are you? and is it really you i miss, or is it me? faking it with a broken smile, a romantic fling, a hard heart to hide the holes. is it that i really think it'll work this time or that i just can't get over not even trying? are you the jouissance of my heart's insatiable desire, a fantasy i created and perpetuated in my addictive imagination? are you content to be? or are you everything i've dreamed, live in the flesh, just taking your time to sort it all out? are you content not to be? unwavering in your indecision, i imagine we'll never know. and i'll just be here living, waiting for the day i stop caring which way your heart will go.

then i got up, walked to the bathroom, and flowed for a full 9-mississippi.  
...and counting.

so happy 30th to a man (or figment of my fantasy) who breaks my heart by doing absolutely nothing.     


Friday, July 19

The Stoke: Motivation, Addiction, and the Affective Experience of Surfers

In keeping with the week’s impromptu theme of addiction, this guest post was written by psychology and anthropology student Kelsi Nummerdor following her ethnographic and theoretical research as a participant in The Anthropology of Surfing, a three-week study abroad field course offered by the University of Georgia and taught in Costa Rica by anthropologist Dr. Pete Brosius. Kelsi explores the addictive quality of surfing, shedding light on a puzzling question - which came first: the surfer or the addict? Are we addicts because we are surfers, or are we surfers because we are addicts?

The Stoke: Motivation, Addiction,
 and the Affective Experience of Surfers

Catch a wave and you’re sitting on top of the world”. These are the iconic words of the 1963 Beach Boys hit, Catch a Wave. This sentiment expresses, in a way, the focus of my ethnographic study of surfers along the Guanacaste coast. The affective experience of surfing, though limited significantly in narratability, is intensely sought after and highly regarded among surfers. The emotional states that occur while surfing are described and expressed in a variety of ways, but there is general agreement that the feeling of the “stoke”, as well as other psycho-emotional and physiological states produced by the physical act of surfing, are highly pleasurable and oftentimes semi-addictive. This cycle of intense affective experience, motivation to re-experience, and subsequent “addiction” is apparent among the lifestyle/soul-surfers I encountered in Guanacaste. Additionally, numerous portrayals of surfers in the media support the claim that surfing is semi-addictive, and that this addiction could possibly be explained by physiological and psychological states inherently catalyzed by the surf experience. Additionally, a multitude of social, environmental, and individual factors can actuate or reinforce motivation to surf. It is exigent to add that this process of “addiction” occurs among the presence of significant risks to physical and social well being (i.e., situations wherein decisions are made that elevate surfing above job or relationship security). Surfing is inherently risky and surfers choose to surf despite, perhaps even because of, these risks.

It must initially be addressed that describing the affective experience of surfing is oftentimes arduous, resulting in fragmentary and largely incomplete data. This is due in large part to the inherent limits of narratability that surround surfing; the surfing experience was termed “indescribable” by many interviewees. The embodied nature of surfing in conjunction with low levels of explicit knowledge and relatively high levels of tacit knowledge help explain these limits: one cannot state exactly how it feels to experience surfing because many aspects of the activity are largely unconscious and acquired through repetitious bodily training. The partially tacit nature of surf knowledge should not suggest simplicity, however. Although decision-making while in the core flow state of surfing seems to be largely unconscious, a highly complex decision making process is still able to occur (Butts, ND). I believe that the process of embodied action in conjunction with the highly unique flow state experience contribute to the addictiveness of surfing. I am willing to postulate that embodiment in the “flow” is highly psychologically pleasurable, and therefore semi-addictive in its own right. I will address this, categorized as a state of intense focus, in subsequent paragraphs.

The aforementioned limits of narratability occur quite quickly when discussing surfing, and make significant understanding of the activity by non-participants nearly impossible. Butts addresses the importance of participant-observation in his article Good to the Last Drop: Understanding Surfers’ Motivation. Personal anecdotal experience supports Butts statement. I was able to explore the act of surfing over the course of three weeks, and believe it has allowed me to push these limits of narratability significantly farther than observation as a non-participant.

Addiction can be described in a variety of ways, and my use of the term here is loose and context-specific. I have chosen to organize my findings around the following working definition of addiction: “the condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or involved in something”. This definition is broad enough to allow behavior, even cognition, to constitute addiction. The lack of explicit reference to substance allows significantly greater freedom in conceptualizing behaviors, even lifestyle choices, as addictions. Additionally, the term occupied allows one to conceive of many instances of occupation. Cognition, discussion, media consumption, and actual performance of an activity may all be categorized as occupation. Psychological and medical literature on addiction is very broad, and I will not describe in detail specific mechanisms of addiction. I will, however, posit that I believe surfing creates a pleasurable physiological response that promotes addiction. Action-specific neurotransmitters (i.e., adrenaline and dopamine) are likely released while surfing. These neurotransmitters catalyze feelings of excitement and pleasure that motivate surfers to repeatedly pursue peak experiences. Conversely, Butts postulates that the nearly constant emotional flux between tension and calm (e.g., the roughness of the inside relative to the serenity of the line-up) functions as a mechanism of physiological optimization of performance in the water. This state of oscillating emotional arousal, Butts suggests, could help us understand the addictive nature of surfing. In chapter four of Surfing and Social Theory, Ford posits a slightly different mechanism: mimetic theory. This theory describes mimetic activities as those that simulate emotions present in riskier, more violent times of human presence. These activities are therefore primordially satisfying. Surfing could prove to be a mimetic activity and therefore a catalyst of intense fight-or-flight-esque emotions. The intensity and rarity of these experiences could also help explain their addictive properties.

Ethnographically, addiction presents in a multitude of ways. The jargon of addiction is often employed by surfers to describe how they experience the desire to surf, or to describe the initial process of becoming “hooked” on the sport. I encountered the phrase “I got the itch [to surf]” multiple times from various sources. One individual, the owner of a tattoo shop, revealed that if the waves are good, he will close the shop in the middle of the day to go surf. This is an example of socially and economically risky behavior that is employed to allow the surfer to get his “fix”. Another individual expressed explicitly that he is “addicted to adrenaline, fear, and pain…surfing is a love, a passion, an addiction, an obsession, a way of life. It shapes your decisions”. Another surfer expressed a feeling of exhaustion after surfing that made him want to do nothing for the rest of the day. This exhaustion is an interesting parallel to the feeling of satiation an addict receives after receiving one’s “fix”. Similarly, one surfer remarked that he did not surf competitively because surfing “gave him enough”. The centrality of surfing in lifestyle fulfills the habitual requirement of my working definition of addiction.

There are many additional aspects of surfing that could contribute to its semi-addictive nature. Most obvious is the physiological and emotional rush one receives when riding a wave. This is what surfers call the “stoke”. The transitory nature of this feeling promotes the search for the next good wave, the next “high”. I experienced multiple times the “one more wave” phenomenon, wherein I decided to end my surfing session for the day, but stayed out for as much as 45 minutes longer because I was searching for the next “great wave”. In psychological terms, this could be conceptualized as variable-interval reinforcement within Skinner’s ‘Schedules of Reinforcement’ within the larger construct of operant conditioning. In this schedule of reinforcement, participants are uninformed as to when reward will be received; like gambling, one waits in a constant state of anticipation for positive reinforcement. In both surfing and other activities, anticipation, subsequent arousal, and eventual reward catalyze the creation of addiction and reinforce established addiction. Additionally, feeling capable, strong, and like you are “riding the energy of the wave” are all also positive behavioral reinforcements. The pleasure of spontaneity, a can-do autonomy, and control over behavior (perhaps magnified by the opposing nature of the out-of-control ocean) also reinforce motivation to surf (Ford 2006).

Social reinforcement and motivation also exist. Being part of the surf community can be highly socially satisfying and consequently promote increased surf behaviors. The embodied nature of surfing greatly heightens this group dynamic of ‘us’ versus ‘them’. As one surfer said, “you have to experience it [surfing] to understand it”. This group dynamic also allows members to sustain a feeling of “antipathy towards bureaucracy and formal organizations” (Ford 2006). The ability to drop out, live in the present (similar fundamentally, I believe, to the flow experience of embodiment), and choose “freedom” are also motivational for surfers (Ford 2006). One can “escape, relocate, and travel” in the name of surfing (Comer 2010). Ethnographically speaking, the character of Kahuna in Gidget exemplifies the life of a surfer bum who “drops out” of society to pursue surfing and “live the dream”.  Similarly, the surf community, through the creation and sustainment of community, social reinforcements, enculturation practices, and multi-media sources of information dissemination, are able to create their own world with unique standards of etiquette (line-up etiquette), skill appraisal, and conceptions of space. This unique space suited to the desires, needs, and preferences of surfers motivates surfers to continue surf behaviors and perpetuate surf society. In other words, a positive feedback loop exists such that the more surf culture grows, the more it reinforces its own growth.

The ocean environment also seems to be motivational for many surfers. Surfing and Social Theory posits that the centrality of a personal relationship with the ocean is fundamental to the sport. Interesting, this hypothesis presents ethnographically. One surfer stated that, “[while surfing] it’s just you and the waves”. Others remarked that the “environment is great” and that “respect for the ocean” is crucial. The serenity of the line-up, the humbling experience of being among dangerous wildlife, and the feeling of incredible smallness that occurs when floating in the ocean make me believe wholeheartedly that the powerful, aquatic environment is in itself reinforcing because of its uniqueness and extremity. In few other places, as one surfer remarked, is the environment constantly changing. Drowning, shark attacks, and other serious injuries also occur amongst the waves. These risks likely heighten the arousal state and make the feeling of success, or “dominating a wave”, more deeply fulfilling. So it does indeed seem that certain individuals may surf because of risks inherent to surfing, and not in spite of them. This postulate is supported by the seemingly large number of surfers who also take part in other extreme sports like skateboarding, snowboarding, or jumping motorbikes.

Ethnographic study illuminates explicitly describable motivation for certain surfers. I received a variety of responses when asking why individuals surf. There were common themes, however. Surfing was referred to by several participants as a “focus point” or “100% focus, like meditation; a zen moment”. This intensity of focus, I believe, corresponds to the core flow experience of surfing, the peak of the embodiment phase, wherein decisions are made unconsciously and incredibly quickly. I believe this could catalyze another theme I witnessed: the experience of “leaving” your problems in the water. I was told: “if you have problems, you forget them in the water”, surfing is an “escape”, surfing “gives you a fresh start”, “you go into the water with a full chalkboard…it [surfing] clears your chalkboard”.  Butts also remarked that surfing “clears the mind and cleanses the spirit.” Similarly, surfing and the relationship with the ocean is seen as fundamentally religious by some. “Mother Ocean” was referenced by one interviewee, and merchandise stating “surfing is my religion” can be seen in surf communities like Guanacaste. Additionally, certain surfers reserve specific rituals for new surf boards or pre-ride physical preparations.

Among other things, surfing can “teach you discipline”, keep you “physically fit”, and sustain a “life philosophy”. One surfer, when asked what surfing does for him, remarked emphatically “What doesn’t it do for me?” and began to list a wide range of benefits and ideologies that surfing supplies him. Surfing, for many, is fulfilling, addictive, motivating, and enjoyable. Surfers often surf for life, and mindfully construct their lives in order to most effectively fulfill their “fix”. In closing, many people reflected that surfing simply feels good. Gidget herself expressed elatedly and repeatedly that surfing is “the ultimate!”

Future research on surfing could begin to illuminate answers to significant questions regarding narratability of flow states, obsessive or risk-taking behavior among surfers, and (if they are present) individual differences between people who get hooked on surfing and those who do not. It would be beneficial for addiction studies in general, I believe, to understand what factors influence the development of individual addiction. No amount of research will answer completely or satisfactorily what surfing means to every surfer; too much emotional and experiential variation undoubtedly exists. However, beginning to understand the motivations, experiences, perceptions, addictions, lifestyle choices, and health benefits of surfers will be both generative and beneficial for a variety of multifaceted disciplines. I am glad I had to opportunity to experience surfing, and to begin what I hope will be a journey into the inner workings of surfing. Right now, above all else, I would really like to go catch a wave.

  
Works Cited

Butts, Steven.  ND.  “Good to the last drop: Understanding surfer’s motivations.”  Sociology of Sport Online 4(1):
Comer, K.  2010.  “Californians in Diaspora: The making of a local/global subculture.”  Chap. 1, Surfer Girls in the New World Order.  Durham: Duke University Press.
Ford, N. & D. Brown.  “Surfing as subculture and lifestyle.” 2006.  Chap. 4, Surfing and Social Theory: Experience, Embodiment and Narrative of the Dream Glide. London: Routledge.
Henderson, M.  2001.  “A shifting line up: Men, women, and Tracks surfing magazine.”  Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 15(3):319-332.