I enter the water and my mind slips away. I lose touch with the world. I no longer have my phone in my pocket. I no longer hear the tunes in my truck. No cars zoom past me. No watch on my wrist. No loud chatter on the streets or in my head. It’s just me. Me, my board, and the ocean. I feel lost to the world, yet radically found at my core.
Sound scary? To some it might be. How abnormal it is, to sit in silence. To detach from our gadgets. To be raw and vulnerable in the ever present tide. There are no easy buttons out there. No swiping distractions. No place to go, but right where you are.
It’s definitely something to get used to.
Especially in the winter. When your hood covers your ears. When there is no laughter from the beach goers, because there are no beach goers this time of year. When the brisk air makes your lips so numb you can hardly make word pronunciations. So you sit. You paddle. You ride. And you ease in. You ease into the silence. You ease into the stillness of your mind that has always existed, and always will, yet rarely gets acknowledged.
It’s like a patient star in the night sky, it shines no matter how many times you’ve passed it by. It never strays. It holds steady. And even though you’ve ignored its light many times, when you suddenly recognize its glow you ask yourself… HOW? How have I missed that? Where have I been? It suddenly becomes the brightest star in the sky. A point that you hone in on. Just like the calm waters of your core, it turns into your compass when you’re feeling lost. Your home when your faraway. Your GPS to guide you back, back to yourself.