As I mentioned in another letter, we’re Jewish, so our holidays aren’t a consideration. This isn’t a condemnation of the Navy, either; it’s a simple fact. We are a very small minority, so when 95% of the ship would prefer to be home for Christmas and Easter and maybe 1% would like to be home for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, guess which side wins this particular argument?

In some ways, things worked out for the better. We have a few weeklong celebrations (Sukkot, Hanukkah, Pesach) and others that last a few days at a time, while Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is this two week marathon. There were times when MarvMan could be home for at least part of the holiday. But there have just as often been entire calendar years he has missed every. single. holiday or special occasion. We’ve put in five years this sea tour. He’s missed four.

The night before Father’s Day 2015, I decided that I was done moping around about special occasions that he missed. Well meaning friends had invited us to spend the day together so the girls wouldn’t be lonely or stuck in the house, but I politely declined. I had other plans. I was going to surprise my girls with a trip to the beach. We would have a mommy daughter day at a place where I was fairly sure I’d be able to ignore everyone.

When the girls went to bed that night, I packed a small bag and put it in the car. One bag was all we would need. I was determined that we wouldn’t be one of those Tent People, who drag out and set up the entire seasonal section of Target. We only needed towels and sunscreen, and I brought a book. Just in case. If the kids couldn’t amuse themselves with the sand and the ocean, we had problems.

I woke them early, got them dressed. I wanted to get there early, before most other people. We were, of course, going to the beach on base, because I figured that would mitigate some of my issues with crowds. Most importantly, I didn’t tell them where we were going. They figured it out pretty quickly – it was kind of obvious, really – but their excitement was through the roof.

I can still hear their gasps as we mounted the last step on the wooden staircase and stared out over the dune at the ocean before us.

We spent almost four hours at the beach that day, and they were beyond exhausted when we got home. So exhausted that they didn’t really notice that Daddy had missed another special occasion. I was even completely blissed out, having gotten more than my fill of Vitamin D for the day, calmed by the fact that my kids were happy. And so what if we’d used some gas and spent a little bit of money at the mini-NEX? That day was the day we started what I call: beach therapy.

Since then, I’ve become an amateur beach bum. I say amateur because I’ve also taken up body boarding, and I don’t think that particular endeavor resembles anything close to being a bum. My days are not spent lounging on the sand, working on my tan. I’m checking swell and surf reports, weather conditions, which direction the waves are going, and tide tables, and only return to my towel for short breaks and to stretch out before going out for another round.

In talking to other people about this newfound passion, I’ve noticed that there are some lessons learned that are applicable both in the water and in life. Especially in the military life, where things can change at a moment’s notice. The water can change that fast, too.

Roll With It

I’ve gone out in what could be considered questionable conditions. I have had friends talk me out of going out when a hurricane was moving up the coast. In my defense, guys, it wasn’t that close to us at the time and there weren’t any warnings posted about surf conditions. Yet. In spite of a few close calls, I am still mostly fearless. Because over time, I’ve educated myself on how the water works. I’ve read countless articles and watched so many videos online I’m pretty sure YouTube thinks I’m trying to get competitive.

But it’ll still surprise me.

Things can change at the drop of a hat and send you scrambling for the dunes. Gray clouds hanging out on the horizon for hours one day suddenly broke into a thunderstorm and we were all hurrying to grab everything and get to our vehicles. I’ve miscounted a set and been overcome by a wave I didn’t expect after a disappointing half ride.

Roll with it. There is absolutely nothing you can do to change certain things.

When that storm hit? We booked it to a nearby restaurant and sat there, shivering and giggling over getting two awesome things in one day: time in the water, and then time watching the storm.

When that wave surprised me? I let go. I didn’t fight the wave. I covered my head, stayed low, and the wave passed. I came up for air, unscathed. A little shaken, a little bit more wary for next time, but I wasn’t hurt. My bodyboard was okay. I got back on and went back out.

Find Your Quiet

We live in Virginia Beach. It’s not the most exciting spot for surfing. Sure, there’s the East Coast Surf Championships, but on any given day, you’re out there with a bunch of other people, doing what the military has taught us to do best of all… waiting.

You learn, after a while, which wave is going to shape up well, which one is going to be disappointing, which one is meh, which one is actually worth it. But you’ve got to be patient, and some days require more patience than others. You’ve got to be quiet and feel the water.

Even when I’m out with MarvMan, it’s not a situation for small talk. We need to give each other space, or we’ll be trying to leapfrog each other, ruining the ride entirely. One particularly slow day, we were out there just floating around, waiting. Watching. The ocean had never looked flatter and I was getting frustrated. On the beach, there were a lot of families. The closer inland you got, the more you could hear the kids shouting, parents hollering, people laughing and joking. But the further out you were, the quieter it got. I had a lot of time to do a whole lot of nothing, and I was getting fidgety.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something in the distance. There were dorsal fins, and I knew from the movement that it was a pod of dolphins. I propped myself up on my elbows, eyes wide, turning to shout for MarvMan.

Except he was paddling away, further south toward the surfing beach. Afraid I would miss the dolphins, I kept my mouth shut, and turned back toward where I’d first caught sight. They were still making their way down along the shoreline, and something about the moment was just… perfect.

I finally started to appreciate the quiet that being so far out afforded me. I felt it seeping into me, into my mind and body. What little rocking motion provided by the water became soothing as opposed to frustrating. There was a beauty in being far enough out that I couldn’t hear the usual beach noise. There was something unifying about the calm and quiet of everything around me. I slowly realized I was okay with the slowness of the water. Completely alright with just sitting there, floating and waiting. It became a meditation.

When I’m stressed out and not in the water, I try to find that quiet again. I try to find that place inside me where everything is calm and I’m simply floating on that calm, flat ocean. I often have to find ways to continue to move through stressful situations, to keep going, until I can get to a place or a point where I can finally stop and process. I’ll picture that day again in my mind, and the plenty more that came after that, and just breathe.

You know how to wait. Find the stillness. Find the quiet in the waiting. Find the quiet in the middle of the stress, away from the noise. Even with little kids running around, I promise you it’s there.

Breathe

It seems almost contrary to include a note about breathing in an entry on being in the ocean, but this has a point. Trust me.

There are times when this life has overwhelmed me to a point of tears. We all know how much I dislike crying, so for me to be to a point of tears is a huge deal. It’s gotten so frustrating and angering at points that I’ve wanted to do nothing more than scream and kick and throw myself around like a toddler having the world’s most epic temper tantrum.

And I have been tossed around like no other by some waves. I’ve gotten pissed off at the snot-nosed kids who seem to want nothing more than to set themselves up right in front of you, even though they see you have a bodyboard. So the next wave, you’re about to get a good ride in, and then you have to pull off so you don’t run over some bratty little punk. (No, I have no residual resentment to work out. What makes you ask?) I’ve also been held under by a wave for just a little bit too long.

When I come up, the first thing I do is take a massive gasp of air. And then I take another few breaths, this time slower than the first. I regulate my breathing and I get myself back under control.

I know that breathing is necessary for life. My body does this for me naturally and automatically, so I don’t often think about the actual mechanics of breathing. I also don’t credit breathing enough for all the benefits that it can have in calming the mind during times of stress.

I breathe in deeply (through the nose) for a slow count of four, then breathe out (through the mouth) for a slow count of eight.

It’s saved more lives than just my own, let me tell you. I swear by it. There are tons of other breathing exercises and methods for breathing to promote calm and maybe those other things work for other people. I practice them as part of my yoga practice. But when I’m most stressed, it’s the simplest exercise, sometimes, that will do the trick.

Let Go

I saved this story for last, because it’s what I consider to be the most important thing I’ve learned from the ocean. I remember this one time when we were in the water, and I really, probably shouldn’t have been out there. The waves that day were what I’ve since learned are called shore dump. I was a novice bodyboarder, though, so my first thought? BIG WAVES. OMG. YES.

Not so much.

They were coming in fast, almost one right after the other, and they were incredibly steep. I still remember the wave that completely washing machined me. I was coming up with it, and I knew as soon as I was about to drop that I was too early – or was it too late? I shifted the wrong way, and I felt my stomach drop about the same time gravity took over. I tumbled, and the wave came down over me. Time immediately slowed to a crawl. This was it, I thought. I was an idiot for attempting this, and I was going to die. I was rolling, getting pulled under, spun about…

And I didn’t let go of my board.

It was my safety blanket. It floats. It would get me out of this mess. I just knew it.

Eventually, the water got between me and my board, almost wedging us apart, and I still didn’t let go. I only held on tighter. In the resulting chaos, I wound up flipped up and over my board, and somehow got situated to where I came down on top of the nose of my board. I felt it jab directly into my middle back and I was forced into a backbend by the sheer power of the water.

Finally, I let go.

I found myself washed up on the beach, sitting up, and feeling very confused as to what, exactly, had just occurred. I didn’t think I was going to come out of that, yet there I was. And oh, man, my back was killing me. By sheer force of will, under the concerned gaze of the lifeguards, I pushed myself up and limped my way back to my towel on the beach, dragging my board behind me.

I’m incredibly lucky I didn’t break my back. That I was even able to walk out of that. I understand, now, how close I came to being seriously injured, all because I wouldn’t let go of my board. It was leashed to me, for goodness sake, and I still didn’t let go. I was thoroughly convinced that I couldn’t release my grip, or if I did it would be worse. No… I learned that day that, when I wipe out? I let go.

The same is true in life. When you wipe out? Let go of your board. Your life-board is all your preconceived notions about how things are supposed to be, the way things are supposed to be done. It’s the fear, it’s the anger, it’s the sadness. It’s whatever it is that you rode in on.

It’ll all be there, waiting for when you’re ready. It’s leashed to you. But when that wave slams you? Let. Go.