C'est la Vie

My last day in San Juan I rose early for a run. In the shower afterwards I watched as a large brown scorpion climbed out of the drain, strolled casually around the perimeter of the stall and then exited the way it had come.

So many people had talked about the transcendent experience of riding a wave that I had to at least give surfing a genuine attempt. For a few dollars I was able to get a perpetually smiling local pro surfer, Oliver Silos, to take me out to a local beach with reliable metre high waves and coach me through the basics. It took me over an hour of falling off the board and then blowing salt water out my nose to be able to consistently catch a wave and get up on the board at least than half the time. Skimming along the face of a wave on a surf board really is a tremendous sensation, but I left the beach thinking that surfing is a sport I am destined not to love.

Surfing reminds me of downhill skiing, which also was fun and easy to learn, but the half hour wait in the lift line followed by a long, wind whipped ride to the top, all for the sake of a thirty second glide to the bottom, was more than my very limited patience could tolerate. Likewise, being propelled towards the beach by an elemental force of nature for a few brief seconds just wasn't worth the long haul back out to the line after every ride to wait for a usable wave. C'est la vie.