Senegal

I knew when I realized my wetsuit was on backwards that I really shouldn't be in Senegal trying to surf. I was on a small boat with seven other people, one of them being my twin sister, Erin. The other passengers were two surf instructors—one local Senegalese man in his early 20s and a Swedish woman in her 30s, who both worked at the Ngor Island Surf Camp where we were staying for the week. The others were fellow travelers from Europe, a group of guys from Denmark on a surf trip like my sister and me, looking for good waves in West Africa off the coast of Senegal near Dakar. I planned the trip to celebrate Erin's and my 35th birthdays, which had been four months prior. She loves surfing and had never been to Africa, so it was a treat to get to do both with her.

Ngor Island has a well-known surf camp with lodging, a swimming pool, a community dining area, and plenty of friendly instructors from all over the globe who are ready and willing to take eager surfers out for all levels of surfing, depending on the location. I myself had maybe surfed (or attempted to surf) three times in my life when we arrived in Senegal to take a small boat to the island. I have always been intimidated by the idea of surfing, and by surfers. I have never liked how quickly the ocean changes, how it is unpredictable. I couldn’t comprehend going underwater after a wave crashed on top of you, and not only having to work your way back to the surface for air, but also managing not to have a surfboard hit you in the face while doing so. And growing up in Virginia Beach, it never seemed that people of any age where beginners or just practicing surfing—they just all seemed really good. How do you learn and not get in the way of all the surfers who already knew what they were doing?

Even with no confidence in being able to hold my own on a surfboard,  I jumped in the boat with seasoned surfers without hesitation. I knew how to float in the water, and I knew how to paddle, so I could just fake surfing if the waves were too big. Or I could just sit on the shore with a board next to me and watch, knowing it was very unlikely anyone would ask me why I wasn’t out in the ocean catching waves. I could come up with a lame excuse anyway if needed. Just taking in the African sun. Just wanted to watch for a while and warm up, I would say.

About 10 minutes later, the boat started to slow down, and our Senegalese captain turned the handle of the small outboard motor so the front of the boat pivoted towards the coastline. We were still easily 600 yards away from the shore, which I could tell was rocky and uninviting. I was confused. Where was the sandy beach where we would be docking? Where was it that I would be taking a break after I paddled around and tried to catch a wave or two? Our female instructor stood up, rocking the boat side to side, and said, “So we're going to get in here behind the break, and you're not going to want to stay to the left of the shore because otherwise you will hit the rock. And don’t get too close to the shore because it’s more rock, so make sure you jump off your board in plenty of time to cut towards the boat and back behind the break.”

Everyone started to stand up and grab their boards, jumping overboard without saying anything. I didn't understand what was going on. Why was no one else dumbfounded? I didn't know that this was even something that was possible. You can start surfing from inside the ocean? Behind the waves?  You can surf without ever going to shore? All of a sudden, it wasn’t just my backward wetsuit that was making me feel stupid. My board felt enormous and awkward. I didn’t understand anything:  the ocean, or waves, or breaks, or currents, or shorelines. Was my leash even on the right ankle for surfing in a regular stance? I reluctantly threw my board into the water and jumped in next to it, grabbing it to pull myself up to balance and paddling slowly toward the group that had started to disperse to find their sweet spots to look out for a set to come in.

I found a flat spot in the ocean and sat on my board, figuring I would just do my best to stay afloat and try to enjoy watching the other surfers. Just as I was looking out to see where my sister had paddled to, a wave came crashing over the top of me, tumbling my body and my board into whitewater. I was stunned by how fast I had been thrashed, considering I was literally doing nothing but sitting, but I recovered rather quickly from the shock, popping up conveniently next to my board. I hopped back on top of it as quickly as I could, the security of the flotation device offering me instant relief. Two seconds later, I heard a voice from behind me call out, “Are you OK?”  It was the female instructor. She had seen what happened. Embarrassed, I started to respond, “Yeah,” when she cut me off to yell, “BECAUSE YOU ARE ABOUT TO GET HIT BY ANOTHER…” and then my ears filled with water. The second wave, the bigger wave, the one they tried to warn me about, took me down harder, further below the surface. I struggled to find my way up, not seeing sunlight or sky, my leash pulling my leg in an unknown direction. My arms and legs flailed in desperation as I felt myself panicking. When I came out of the wave, I gasped for air and clumsily swam over to my board, more desperate than ever to cling to it, exhausted and terrified of another wave hitting me. I managed to crawl onto the board, exhausted and with no clue how I was going to get out of this predicament, when my board started to move fast. Really fast. I gripped the edges tighter and slowly turned my head around. I could see the left hand of the male instructor at the tail of my board, pushing me as he paddled his board with his right hand. It felt like only seconds went by before we were back on the boat. I rolled off my surfboard and hopped into the small vessel. The male instructor handed me my board, then his, and climbed in and sat across from me, never taking his eyes off the break or the other surfers in the water. I could tell he took his job seriously. He had kept his eye on me and knew that I was safe; he had his eye on everyone else. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I wanted to thank him, but that felt too weird. Did he know I felt like I was drowning? Or to him, did I just look like a poor swimmer and a very bad surfer? After a few minutes, I decided to say something, so I asked, “Are these big waves to you?” I had no idea. To me, they looked 30 feet high. In reality, they might have been 4-foot waves. He laughed kindly, shook his head a bit, and said, “No, these are too easy. This isn't actually even that fun for me. I like the big waves.” I nodded in agreement, as though I understood anything more than I thought those waves were trying to kill me, to strangle me to death. The waves that I felt I would never survive, he thought of as a kind of joke wave. A silly wave. At that point, I realized he wasn’t sitting with me to comfort me—he was sitting with me because he didn't think this surf looked good. We didn’t say anything else to each other. We watched the others surf, the guys catching wave after wave, my sister rolling her body and her board through the waves like a pro, paddling with ease, never wiping out. The sun was setting. It would be time to go back soon. I couldn’t wait to take my wetsuit off. I couldn’t wait to be on land.

Whenever everyone returned to the boat, the group of guys excitedly talked about how great the surf had been. My sister smiled, listened, agreeing with them. After we arrived on shore, we hung up our wetsuits, cleaned our boards, and headed to dinner. I quietly had my meal and a few beers, listening to the conversations between my sister and the other surfers that were full of excitement and adrenaline, power, and freedom. All the things that surfing should make you feel. I had been so close to drowning, but I didn’t mention it to anyone. All I had felt was fear. My sister and I went back to our room later that night after the drinks were drunk and the laughter of the surfers died down. It would be an early morning for all of them. Dawn Patrol. They—we— needed our rest. Erin and I got into bed. The room was dark and quiet. My sister rolled over and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. We lay there not speaking for a moment before I quietly whispered, “Erin, was it scary for you in the ocean today?” and, without turning her body to face me, she paused and responded sleepily, “Yeah, Shelley, that was really scary.”