Cowabunga!

Okay. Anyone who knows me knows that, while I love the ocean, the words "Jenna" and "surf" are never juxtaposed in the same sentence unless being used to describe the cheap brand of laundry detergent that I once bought at Costco. At most, over the years, I've been the proud owner of a string of warm--and pretentiously branded--surf sweatshirts from Channel Islands or the Beach House; but never, and I mean NEVER, have I had an urge to spend a day surfing. Even though I love the ocean, and nothing makes me feel healthier than running in and dunking my head and then letting the salt dry on my skin for the rest of the day, I'm fairly certain that I'm also afraid of it. When I stare at the ocean, I feel small and scared. Back home, every time one of my friends voices their desire to swim out to the buoys, I always nod along--like I find it to be the most normal thing in the world, instead of the equivalent of taking a rocketship to Mars without a seatbelt--but am secretly completely content to splash in the shallow region, picking up shells and making dribble castles. I love surf culture because I love the philosophy, and I love the fact that some people DO want to spend all day out in the ocean...but I've never been one of them.

That is, until this weekend. I signed up for Surf Club at Societies day on campus because I was extremely caffeinated, and doing that international student thing where I just want to be involvedinvolvedinvolved. Also, the surf booth had free candy. So I got the emails for a couple of weeks and deleted them on autopilot...but for some reason, last week, when Erin said that she was going on the first surf trip and did I want to go along, I said yes. I don't know why. I went back and forth and back and forth about it, because honestly, I felt that my desire to go was propelled more by the urge to forge a cool-kid identity for myself, completely independent from anything I've ever been or known--because who is to say that I can't?--than an actual wish to spend the weekend in a freezing cold ocean. Still, I signed up, and Alyssa did as well--the two of us slightly in denial over the fact that going on a surf trip would actually involve some surfing, and an extended period of time in a gigantic-wet-dangerous place that we may or may not be terrified of.

But Friday evening rolled around--and backpacks in tow--Erin, Alyssa, Chris, and I battled the apocalyptic weather (I actually had to hold on to the sides of buildings to keep from toppling over in the windy rain!) to get to the bus that left from campus. It was the beginning of a solid 48 hours in which everything I owned would either be damp, or cold, or both. Tubular! Anyhow, we arrived in Bundoran around 10:00 p.m., and after unloading the surfboards from beneath the bus, were told to walk into one of the houses dotting the street and choose a bed. I felt like I was on one of those TLC shows where Paige Davis just hands you a house key and says "SURPRISE!"--it was marvelous. I settled into #3 along with Erin, Alyssa, Chris, Nick, Patrick, and Daniel, and the group of us danced around our digs like giddy children all night, eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing with the appliances. The houses were incredibly luxurious and spacious--cabinet space and strong water pressure, oh my!--and may or may not have been a quasi-bribe to get up early the next morning and actually complete the surfing component of the weekend...

So, in typical Irish fashion, none of us knew what time we were set to go surfing, where we were leaving from, what time we were leaving from, or what to bring--but at 9:30, we got a knock on the door and rolled out of bed and into the Turf n' Surf bus. The day could not have been grayer, wetter, windier, or rainier. The waves in Bundoran were actually TOO big for us to surf, which was pretty wild--so after suiting us up (in frigid, frigid, FRIGID wetsuits, booties, gloves, and hoods), they drove us 20 minutes to another beach. Alyssa was hilarious...she didn't have her glasses on, so every time we came to a stop next to a field or parking lot, she looked out the window--and seeing what resembled a darkish expanse of something--asked in the most wonderful Long Island accent imaginable, "are we there yet?" Eventually we were, and after a quickie lesson on the beach of where to stand on the surfboard and how to pop up, we hit the water.

Thankfully, the water actually made the wetsuits warmer...and surprisingly, once I got in up to my chest, the ocean felt like a bath. Not the type of bath one would take voluntarily, but still, a bath. It's difficult to describe how I felt out there, bobbing like a tiny seal with my massive surfboard, blinking the rain out of my face... but if I had to, I would say it felt like Christmas morning. Truly. Yes, there were moments when I felt so cold that I questioned my sanity in being there, and yes, the first gigantic gulp of saltwater that made its way into my lungs was not exactly welcome...but I felt so free out there, completely detached from my comfort zone; not trying to impress anyone, just being. And I did it! I actually stood up! I surprised myself in doing it, too, because I was already awarding myself a mental Purple Heart just for making it as far as getting in the water... but about halfway through the morning, I managed to catch a wave. It was AWESOME. My heart was racing the whole rest of the day.

After we left the water and endured the positively awful bus ride back to the surf school (hint: wetsuits are warm IN the water. Wetsuits are NOT warm after getting out of the water), the instructors gave us scalding hot coffee and chocolate biscuits, and sent us on our merry way. That's the wonderful part of doing something like surfing--everything afterward is blissful. Food has never tasted so good. Sleep has never felt so deep. And a hot shower...words cannot describe. Given, even after the shower, none of our bodies recovered to their full warmth.. but it was okay. We ate humongous meat pies for dinner and spent the evening bouncing from party to party, exploring the tiny nightlife that Bundoran has to offer and dancing our butts off.

Now it is a new week, and I am thoroughly exhausted... my arms are so sore you would have thought I spent the weekend hauling concrete blocks. Of course, I'm secretly dying for someone to ask me why my arms are sore, because I want to tell them that I, yes I went surfing this weekend. I'm fully aware of the irony of the situation, that as a native Southern Californian it took me twenty years and a trip to Ireland to try surfing for the first time, but what can I say? I did something completely wild and new this weekend, have a closet full of clothes that smell like rotten seaweed to prove it, and also a tiny row of Irish seashells on my the shelf over my desk to remind me of just how wonderful it felt.