South of San Francisco, purple mist wraps around the Montara Mountains. It’s a cold sunset in July, and I’m zipped into a 3/2 wetsuit. Today will be my first time surfing, and I am very excited.

Fighting against the ocean is a humbling experience. In the Pacific Ocean, even paddling out is a battle. Every wave that hits me hurts– I can feel my body bruising from how the salt smacks me onto the board. When I flip and my head goes underwater, it genuinely feels like I might drown.

I lose my flippers to the waves, and retreat to shore. Retying the surfboard leash to my ankle, I try again.

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The sun has long set and the moon illuminates the darkness. I cannot expect to surf standing on my first try– but I should at least learn the rhythm of the water. I learn the cues of the ocean– how to flatten my body when the wave comes, and when to turn. 

When I finally ride the break of a wave on a bodyboard– it is so exhilarating. I feel the water crest beneath me, and the kinetic energy from its fall will propel me a hundred meters across the sand. I twist my body to follow its path– next to me, my friend cheers– almost three hours have passed without us knowing it.

Surfing teaches me life lessons. I can see gold in the journey ahead, and I swim it with determination, one wave at a time.