Saltwater Wisdom

Funny thing, wisdom. At 39, it seems like I have a ton of it. I know how to help my friends. I know how to help my family. I know how to help me. I know exactly what not to say to my ex-wife. Then I say it anyway because I've never had the skill to impart or utilize any of this wisdom. What seems sagely and profound on the inside comes out long-winded and preachy, so people rarely listen that what I have to say -- least of all, me.

Two Sundays ago, my daughter announced she wanted to spent the day hanging around the beach pad. I agreed, but on the condition that she first follow me to the beach so that I could go for a quick dip. To my surprise, she agreed.

To my bigger surprise, she decided she wanted to stay once we got there. The beach was overcast and almost empty, save us and a large twelve-step support meeting sitting in a circle, drinking coffee and eating cookies.

I collected tiny seashells as the kid drew in this little yellow notepad she carries around with her. She made sketches of the lone surfer in the water and periodically asked me to help her draw the waves.

At the risk of being judgmental, the surfer wasn't surfing very well. He was on a longboard and he kept paddling into the waves too late, causing his board's nose to dig into the water and flip him helpless into the mush. The word for this is "pearling."

I wanted so badly to swim out there and, with one quick bit of wisdom, completely revolutionize his surfing, but in the 23 years I've lived by the ocean, of the three continents and hundreds of individual wave riders I've known, I've never once met one who liked unsolicited advice while floating in the line up, especially from a stranger.

After a while, my daughter met a couple little boys playing in the water decided she wanted to get wet. I ran around with her as I talked to the boys' mother. She was part of the twelve step group, a very sweet person, but I could practically see the pain radiating from her. Life had beaten her down in ways I hope I never understand and she had no problem talking about it. I thank my higher power for a good day or week. This woman probably thanks her God for a good minute or hour.

Eventually, the surfer got out of the water. As he walked by, I wanted to say, "Dude, if you went out past the break a little further and started paddling into the wave a little sooner, you'd totally be able to catch these waves." But for some reason, I censored myself. I opened my mouth and out came, "Howza surf?" followed by a macho nod. He returned the nod, reached into his pack, pulled out his phone and asked me to take his photo with his board, so that he could post in on a dating website.

I snapped a few shots. He thanked me, headed into the twelve-step circle and helped himself to coffee and cookies, which I thought was a little presumptuous until I realized he was part of the group.

Lately, I've been surfing with such regularity that I write off a bad surf as a bad surf, forgetting what a gift that it actually is. What I had snobbishly considered a crappy demonstration of lousy wave riding was, for this guy, on this Sunday morning, his saltwater communion. It didn't require improvement.

And keeping my wisdom to myself was the wisest possible thing I could have done.