<p>I marvel at the relentless, turbulent waves churning the best surf at Batu Bolong Beach in Bali, Indonesia, while digging my heels in the wet sands of the shore. Many surf schools line up on this shimmering black sand beach that gets its colour from Bali’s volcanoes. I feel the surfer’s vibe all around me as the beginners, their coaches, and veteran surfers carry their surf boards and crisscross the sand.</p>.<p>I am in my seventh decade of life with an unyielding knee, and there was no question of me getting on that surfboard, but it’s not a deterrent to absorbing the camaraderie and energy all around. Some surfers are fitter, stronger, more flexible, aware of how to use their bodies, and seemingly at ease paddling out into the surf. Some are finding their core stability lying on their stomachs on the body-surfing board, trying to negotiate the waves. And the waves roll in gloriously, successively, foamy, frothy, and both as gentle swell and brutal force.</p>.<p>From the shoreline, I see the surfers waiting patiently in the water to catch a wave, then paddling with ease as they glide under and over the oncoming waves. It looks easy. But my daughter and son-in-law promptly corrected my views and brought in the right perspective from the other side of the waves. The crashing waves, they say, are like a battleforce, where the glimmering water holds all the power, and the surfers should fear, respect, and cajole her to ride her. The paddling exhausts the arms of the beginners, and they get rolled, bruised, and thrown around under water by a breaking wave, not unlike the clothes in the washing machine. They informed me that many glamorous surfing dreams get washed away right after the first lesson.</p>.<p>I wonder aloud, “Why would these people love it when your description seems like that of an abusive relationship?” I couldn’t be more wrong, I am told. True, surfing is utterly exhausting; even those muscles that were oblivious till now will ache beyond belief. But the first time standing up on the board and riding that first wave is when magic happens. The adrenaline rush coursing through the veins washes away any pain.</p>.<p>I had this sudden epiphany: surfing is a lot like religion. Surfers have reverence for the sea. When a surfer rides a perfect wave, peeling across a glassy ocean, and is touched by yellow sun rays in that sanctified place called the ocean, they perhaps commemorate the miracle of life. The great effort to paddle, surrendering initially to the power of the waves and toppling, slowly taming the waves to ride on them, all contribute to the zen state of mind. The sacred ocean or nature that fosters powerful, transformative healings is perhaps<br />the surfer’s God, and the wave is the holy spirit.</p>
<p>I marvel at the relentless, turbulent waves churning the best surf at Batu Bolong Beach in Bali, Indonesia, while digging my heels in the wet sands of the shore. Many surf schools line up on this shimmering black sand beach that gets its colour from Bali’s volcanoes. I feel the surfer’s vibe all around me as the beginners, their coaches, and veteran surfers carry their surf boards and crisscross the sand.</p>.<p>I am in my seventh decade of life with an unyielding knee, and there was no question of me getting on that surfboard, but it’s not a deterrent to absorbing the camaraderie and energy all around. Some surfers are fitter, stronger, more flexible, aware of how to use their bodies, and seemingly at ease paddling out into the surf. Some are finding their core stability lying on their stomachs on the body-surfing board, trying to negotiate the waves. And the waves roll in gloriously, successively, foamy, frothy, and both as gentle swell and brutal force.</p>.<p>From the shoreline, I see the surfers waiting patiently in the water to catch a wave, then paddling with ease as they glide under and over the oncoming waves. It looks easy. But my daughter and son-in-law promptly corrected my views and brought in the right perspective from the other side of the waves. The crashing waves, they say, are like a battleforce, where the glimmering water holds all the power, and the surfers should fear, respect, and cajole her to ride her. The paddling exhausts the arms of the beginners, and they get rolled, bruised, and thrown around under water by a breaking wave, not unlike the clothes in the washing machine. They informed me that many glamorous surfing dreams get washed away right after the first lesson.</p>.<p>I wonder aloud, “Why would these people love it when your description seems like that of an abusive relationship?” I couldn’t be more wrong, I am told. True, surfing is utterly exhausting; even those muscles that were oblivious till now will ache beyond belief. But the first time standing up on the board and riding that first wave is when magic happens. The adrenaline rush coursing through the veins washes away any pain.</p>.<p>I had this sudden epiphany: surfing is a lot like religion. Surfers have reverence for the sea. When a surfer rides a perfect wave, peeling across a glassy ocean, and is touched by yellow sun rays in that sanctified place called the ocean, they perhaps commemorate the miracle of life. The great effort to paddle, surrendering initially to the power of the waves and toppling, slowly taming the waves to ride on them, all contribute to the zen state of mind. The sacred ocean or nature that fosters powerful, transformative healings is perhaps<br />the surfer’s God, and the wave is the holy spirit.</p>