No Grace, Just Grit: My First Time Surfing

... and let me tell you, it’s not for the faint of heart.

California is the dreamland of surfers, period. So, when I moved to San Francisco (SF) in 2012, I had to try surfing, right?

Too bad I was just a simple, naive Mediterranean sea creature.

Growing up in Italy, summers meant at least two weeks at the beach, usually visiting Nonna Delia in Abruzzo, a region on the east side of Italy that kisses the calm, salty Adriatic Sea. The water there is so gentle that floating feels effortless, and people spend hours chilling in the low tide and playing water ball. The only real danger coming from jellyfish.

Little did I know, the Pacific Ocean was a completely different beast.

“This morning, I saw a shark in the water,” my classmate Karl told me one day as he slid into the seat next to me. It was 9 a.m. class about to start.

“This morning, what?” He had my full attention. “Yeah, I went surfing and saw a huge fin next to my board. Plus, it was crazy cold,” Karl said, pulling out his phone to show me a photo of himself in a black wetsuit, black cap, and booties.

“Don’t look at me like that. Surfing is super fun,” he flashed me a cocky smile “you should try” he challenged.

Oh, maybe I will, I whispered under my breath, smiling back just as the professor walked in and interrupted our conversation. Challenge accepted.

That weekend, Karl went back to surf the shark-infested waters of Ocean Beach, so I pivoted and hitched a ride south with my friend Javier to Pacifica Beach—a rugged stretch of Northern California coastline and the go-to spot for surfing lessons (and lowering your odds of becoming shark food).

“I’ll teach you. No need for a lesson,” Javier said as we got out of the car.

Surfers dotted the water like black specks along the entire stretch of Pacifica Beach, all perched on their boards, waiting for the perfect wave. “It doesn’t look that hard,” I said, watching them stand up effortlessly and catch wave after wave.

As a good Italian, I was beach-ready: a yellow sundress over a black bikini, sunglasses, a hat, and a straw bag.

"Wow," I muttered, eyeing a guy in jeans and a heavy sweater with the hood up. Did he know he was going to the beach? A quick glance confirmed it wasn’t just him—everyone was either bundled in sweatshirts and pants or zipped into thick wetsuits. How were they planning to get a tan?

Then a gust of wind plastered my sundress against me, whipping sand into my legs like tiny blades. Goosebumps spread across my skin as I hugged myself for warmth. Did I really know what I was getting myself into?

“Ready to try?” Javier said. “Get a wetsuit, I’ll wait for you in the water.” He ran into the waves before I could answer.

This was it—the reason I’d come to this cold beach. To prove to Karl, but mostly to myself, that I could do it. With determination, I headed to Nor Cal Surf Shop, the small rental spot near the parking lot, to grab the only thing standing between me and the ocean.

Putting on a wetsuit was a battle. I jumped up and down, hoping gravity and willpower would help the neoprene slide on. After much struggle, I zipped it up, squeezed in like a sausage, and suddenly, I was excited. Really excited. I couldn’t wait to get in the water.

“I’m ready!” I waved both hands at my Venezuelan friend, who was waiting just beyond the break. He signaled for me to join him.

I stepped into the water, somehow expecting it to be as warm as the Mediterranean Sea. Oh, boy, was I wrong. The water was so cold my feet went numb instantly, and shivers ran down my spine. It was the kind of cold that pierces through bones and cuts deep. But freezing water wasn’t going to stop me. Not today.

I faced the first wave like I do the familiar waves of the Adriatic Sea, jumping against it and letting the water hit me, while not getting completely wet. Too bad I realized, at the last second, that the wall of water heading my way was twice my height.

The wave was so high and strong it slammed me to the ground, rolling me along the seabed before sucking me back with incredible force. I resurfaced, gasping for air, only to see another wave coming right at me. I tumbled along the ocean floor again.

The next wave came with a surfer riding it beautifully, but his ride was cut short when he spotted me in his path and had to bail off his board. “Get the hell out of the way!” he yelled as he resurfaced.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, realizing I’d probably broken a fundamental surfing rule. But screw rules, this was about survival.

My brain quickly wired a new strategy, decades of swimming lessons kicking in as the next wave rolled in. I dove under just before it broke, finding that quiet spot beneath the raging water and finally, I reached Javier, unharmed but exhausted, only to find him laughing and recording the whole scene with his GoPro—which, ironically, would be stolen from his car later that day.

“Get on,” he said, holding the board steady as I climbed onto it belly-first, as gracefully as a whale doing a tap dance, and managed to sit up. “That was the hard part. From now on, it’s easy,” he continued, wrapping the leash around my left ankle. Earlier on the beach, we’d determined I was “goofy-footed,” meaning my right foot would lead on the board.

“When I tell you, lie belly-down on the board, paddle with your arms, and stand up when you gain speed.” He sounded so confident. I nodded. Okay, this doesn’t seem too bad.

“Wave coming!” Javier yelled, pushing the board and propelling me toward the shore. “Now, paddle with your arms!”

That was the moment of truth. I lay on my stomach and paddled. The wave arrived, and I gained speed. Oh my god, how do I stand up? I pushed down with my arms, but my weight was too far forward, and I dove headfirst into the water, flipping over with the board. Seawater, sand, and salt filled my mouth. The leash yanked hard on my left ankle, and I let my body roll with the wave—a déjà vu from before.

But this time, the sinusitis was gone. The lingering cold from last month’s flu? Also gone. The ocean’s impact had acted like a brutal sinus rinse. Effective. Not sure I would recommend it.

I kept trying, over and over, repeating the same motion: pass the water break, wait for your turn (yes, respecting the right of way is a thing—don’t you dare steal a wave from another surfer), wait for the right wave, quickly turn the board, get belly-down, paddle, paddle, and stand up. Remind me why I thought this was going to be easy?

And for every wave I wasted trying to “catch it,” the more insults I got from the pro surfers nearby. How dare I wasted precious waves?

I couldn’t even stand on my knees, and I kept drinking so much seawater I’m pretty sure my blood pressure skyrocketed from all the salt. The exhaustion was really challenging me to reconsider my choices. I was about to give up, to be done with it. Fuck surfing.

“One more!” Javier yelled from knee-deep water near the shore. So I found the strength to try one more time.

The wave came closer. I had just enough time to shoot a deadly look at the pro surfer next to me, who was about to steal my right of way. I turned, paddled, and got on my knees, bracing for the yet-again inevitable impact with the water.

But the impact didn’t come… Was I, was I, was I surfing? My weight was just right, my knees and hands gripping the hard board as I gained speed and actually floated on the water. The wave that had swallowed me whole time and time again was now giving me wings.

“Whooooo!” I screamed. I could not believe it. The wind, the speed, the weightlessness, it was like floating in the air. My sore arms and legs? Suddenly worth it.

The ecstasy was short-lived as my board made an unexpected turn, heading straight for a surfer swimming back to the lineup. “Move!!” I yelled. Luckily, he dove underwater just in time—collision averted.

I managed to catch three waves in total, all while kneeling. I didn’t stand up or pull off any fancy moves, but I was so proud of myself for trying something new, something hard and outside my comfort zone, and for somewhat succeeding.

Still, the final score stood: Ocean 1 – Simona 0. But who knows? Maybe next time will be different.

That night, I went to sleep with a wide smile on my face, looking forward to telling Karl and my other friends all about it.

Catch you on the next wave,
Simona