What a difference three weeks can make in the second trimester! As soon as I lay down on my borrowed board, it all felt very wrong – very wrong and VERY awkward. How do men with beer bellies do it?? Even so, I paddled out through the (somewhat messy and not great) Oceanside break to where VHH and our friends sat waiting in the line-up. I’d barely sat up when a woman paddled over on her board and asked me how far along I was. “20 weeks,” I said, feeling slightly self-conscious and a little reckless (there’s that guilt again).
Stacie surfing
The discussion that ensued was both encouraging and heartening. Rather than regale me with stories of gloom, doom and gore (an ever-increasingly common experience for the pregnant woman), this complete stranger shared her surfing experiences while pregnant, how having children changed her ability and opportunity to surf, her regrets at not recommencing sooner after the birth of her children, and the extra joy she now takes in her time in the water – the line-up now so much quieter, more waves show potential than before, the sun on her shoulders so much warmer. After that session, I declared it to all and sundry as the last of my pregnancy. I began mentally adjusting to life out of the water.
The next morning we headed north to Carlsbad to check out the surf. VHH asked again whether we should pack two boards – No, no, no, it’s fine – “I’ll walk on the beach, take photos, I’ll be fine.” We pulled into the Carlsbad lot and my heart sank.
It was perfect.
VHH asked if we should go back and get my board. Sounding less resolute, I reiterated my non-surfing position and watched on glumly as VHH waxed up and proceeded to enjoy the best waves of the trip.
It took me several days to stop crying whenever the ocean or surfing was mentioned. With the physical absolute of pregnancy preventing my surfing, the enormity of what VHH and I were about to embark upon in the form of parenthood hit me. We could never just drop everything and go surfing together again. Our relationship had been pretty much defined by surfing – in sharing the exhilaration of a great session, cheering each other into waves; and also in sharing the depressive burden of a small, windy day that really didn’t warrant getting wet – no doubt, it was a big part of our lives together.
We talk now with a particular fondness of great surfing days we have shared – like the freezing cold day at Winki Pop when I earned the respect of a ‘vocal local’ by paddling in to a 6 foot set wave, setting off a big rooster tail on a top turn, prompting VHH to declare proudly “That’s my fiancée.” Or the perfect morning at Fisho’s when we shared long, perfect rights, weaving in and out, trying to avoid cutting each other off, hooting like stupid kids.
I got back into the water when Asher the Unstoppable, our son, was 3 weeks old. I squeezed myself into my wetsuit and paddled out on my new 6’5” (a ‘birthing gift’ from VHH) into possibly the crappiest 2 foot ‘surf’ ever seen at Jan Juc. I nearly cried with joy.
VHH and I have surfed together a few times since, and each session is a cherished one. The rest of the time, we switch off – taking it in turns to babysit while the other surfs. We’re at the beach a lot longer, and the preparation is a bit more involved, but the family loves it. And I’m still surfing.
Surfing Mum
