After another hour and a half of psyching myself up and watching and waiting and getting pushed around by the break, Ally asked, “what would you want to accomplish that would make you feel good about today?” My response: to have one ride out beyond the break and back. I took a deep breath, walked my rig far upwind, watched another rider go, and launched just after him. I reached the whitewater and kept everything steady. The first small break came and I sheeted in and weighted the tail to bring the nose up to let the wave under the board, and remembered to lean forward again to unweight the tail to keep the speed up. Three more waves, each getting more powerful, but I was holding on. I had made it this far in my last attempt, but had lost power in the sail and couldn’t make it over the last wave in the set, and had ended up in the washing machine. This time the wind stayed steady and I gritted my teeth as I picked up even more speed, rushing at the three foot high wall of water. No turning back now. Somehow I kept everything together and timed the tail step, lean-forward moves well enough to plough over the top of the wave. I had made it through! I was sailing on the open ocean!

I was surprised at the feeling of sailing on the waves beyond the break as I hooked in and reached planing speed. Like riding up and down gentle hills. Overlapping the complete and utter thrill of having made it into the ocean was a feeling of crazy, unbridled terror of being on the open ocean. What the hell was I doing here?! Luckily this fear was fleeting as I focused on sailing, and on the deepest, most vibrant blue I’d ever seen.

“I really should turn back now,” I thought, as the wind was much stronger further out, and my speed was picking up even more. But first, a bit of showing off. I spotted a perfect jumping wave and took off. My plan was to make this little jump, and then find a nice flat section to jibe on and return to shore. But ocean waves are different from bay waves, and I was completely unprepared for the unprecedented height of this jump, and the wider spacing of the waves. Where usually the landing area would be just behind the takeoff spot, here was empty air in the trough between the waves. My weight was far too forward and I crashed sloppily into the cold, cold Pacific. The kind of cold that forces you to exhale all the air in your lungs. At least as cold as the Bay was in February. But I was having so much fun, that I just started laughing. Briefly. My mind went to large marine predators with sharp teeth, at which point I waterstarted quickly, and headed back to shore.

Another windsurfer passed me, then a kiter, who was rather close with his lines, but he seemed to know what he was doing. As the new guy, I was just hoping I wasn’t violating right of way with anyone. At this point I realized I’d be heading back into the frenetic zone of the shore break from the other side and had not much of an idea of how to sail through it. A second windsurfer passed me and I followed his path. I had imagined I’d be surfing on a curling wave at this point (or swishing around in the rinse cycle), but it was more like being gently pushed along by a rippling carpet. I reached the whitewater and saw another break gaining on me. I sheeted in and outran it, since I didn’t know if it would knock me off balance. I hopped off when my fin started dragging in the sand, picked up the rig and ran onto the beach. I set the rig down and threw my hands up in victory. Ally walked up to me with a great smile and gave me a high five and a kiss. Life is good.

Music: Get your hands off my unimog by Implosion Quintet.

Although other windsurfers continue until they disappear as tiny specs in the distance, I decide it’s better to not venture too far across the bay. I look behind me to make sure nobody is following too close, unhook from the harness line, and perform the complicated dance called a carve jibe. In the space of 5 seconds I carve the board downwind, shuffle my feet (briefly looking like I’m trying to plié), flip the sail around and grab it on the other side, and end up on the opposite tack. This move, which essentially amounts to simply turning around, has taken four months of intense practice (with many spectacular crashes along the way) to get right. It’s still a joy when I complete it, and I still crash half my attempts. I let out a “whoo hoo!” and carve a path toward shore.

In three short weeks the engine that generates the San Francisco Bay wind will shut down for the winter. My friends will see more of me and I’ll start mountain biking again, mainly to stay in shape for the beginning of the next wind season in March. By the beginning of February I’ll be jonesing so much for my next windsurfing fix that I’ll write a blog post just to relive the last one.

Slowly, over the course of a couple of summers, I started to get a feel for it. I’d be just about ready to give up and then get a taste for what it could be like: a 30 second rush of pure adrenaline as the board whipped forward, followed by the inevitable uncoordinated plunge. This is exactly the kind of random reward our brains seem wired to get addicted to: it’s how slot machine operators make all their money on late night gamblers. Only this was outdoors and only resulted in sore muscles, not an empty bank account and baggy eyes. That electrifying half-minute was enough for me to pull myself back on the board and start uphauling the sail once again. My focus was so intense that I wouldn’t notice until that evening the cuts and bruises on my feet and knees from my clumsy attempts to get on the board as quickly as possible. Eventually those bursts would extend to minutes at a time, the sail would seem to get lighter as I learned to let the water slowly fall off it before hauling it up and the board became more and more stable as I understood where to put my feet and how to keep enough wind in the sail to keep from falling over. I learned some technique, like tacking (turning around while stepping around the front of the mast) and planing (gaining enough speed that the board lifts up and skims across the surface of the water).

Twenty-plus years into this sport I still experience the same thrill and catch glimpses of what the next level of skill will be like. It’s a pretty solitary activity (although there’s great camaraderie among windsurfers onshore) and there’s something about harnessing the wind directly with your own body that is incredibly meditative, therapeutic and stimulating at the same time. I’m very happy that my nephew, Erik, has taken an interest in windsurfing and I’ve seen his excitement when he gets going for a few seconds.

I am sailing my trusty old board (the whole rig is in surprisingly good condition after all these years; most of the decals are still intact and I’ve managed to not tear the sail). The wind is just starting to pick up after being fickle for most of the afternoon. It’s been mostly cloudy so far this summer so the lake hasn’t had much of a chance to warm up: added incentive not to fall in. But I’m focused on the wind. I’m on a broad reach, getting a feel for the conditions. There’s a lull but I’ve come to realize over the years that there’s always a pocket about this far from shore. Sure enough I see the telltale ripples just ahead and I sheet out a bit to anticipate the sudden pull. I ease the sail back in a bit and in no time I’m planing. I hook into the harness line on the boom. This is still a new thing for me even though I’ve been using a harness for a few years. Especially the first few times I go out in a season I’m acutely aware of the probability that I’ll be catapulted by an unforeseen gust. But this time I feel fairly secure. I sheet in some more, lean back, and commit most of my weight to the harness. I step back on the board and the wind picks up some more. I’m constantly making minute corrections in the angle of the sail as the wind and the waves change the weight balance. Aside from a single fishing boat in the distance I have the entire lake to myself. I hear the waves slap against the bottom of the board and the wind hiss through my ears and feel myself hurtle across the surface of the infinite blackness of the water reflecting the shifting clouds above and I have no thoughts racing through my brain — just the intent focus on maintaining this balance. It is glorious and blissful and thrilling and familiar and surprising. My breaths seem to take in twice as much oxygen as normal. I look back at the shrinking buildings I left behind a few minutes ago and the rounded mountain behind them set against brilliant, clear blue. For a moment, all that exists is this moment.