The Road Not Taken

I was watching surfers last night. We had epic surf on Good Friday to the point there was practically no beach left at Avoca where we are spending the long weekend. It settled a bit on Saturday, waves came in clear sets and there was an occasional gleam of green in contrast to the day before when the wave tops were immediately blown off to churn white all the way to the beach. Surfers were everywhere. They get so close to the rocks it seems way too dangerous. Then one of them pops up on a wave and takes off, down the wave then up and no matter how many times I see it, I never get tired of it and it never stops being, well, magic. Witchery.

I grew up in Siberia and apart from doing ballet as a 6 year old, cross country skiing in the forest across the road from our apartment block and mandatory PE in school, I was not an athletic child. I wore glasses and I always had a book to read, long before it was known that distracting yourself from the world around you is unhealthy (but I was doing it with books not devices so I guess it was ok). And yet when I first got access to satellite TV I was mesmerised by the channel that was showing skateboarding and surfing. The persistence and skill required to do those things seemed way cooler than anything that I could do (a sad poem, anyone?). If I could transport my conscience into someone else’s body for an hour I’d choose an experienced surfer on a good surfing day, for the experience of that high of mastery over your own body and the ocean that can so easily kill you.

I did try surfing after I moved to Australia. It was way before I got into sailing and I took many lessons with a community college and got to know a few people, mostly surfing instructors. I lacked the upper body strength but my balance was fine. I had tremendous fun even in white water and I did manage to catch a few waves, mostly with the instructor’s help. It was pretty clear though that I’d have to basically live on the beach and practice every day, not once a week if I wanted to get serious about it. I would also need to either keep paying an instructor or somehow find someone who’d be ok to at least go surfing with me which seemed impossible with all the other things happening in my life.

I haven’t surfed in ages.

It’s interesting to think what could have been though if I made different choices in life and surfing is one of them. And if I was born in Australia to someone who sent me to nippers, would I be a completely different person, ripping down and up the waves, would that be something so natural and easy for me that I’d take it for granted? What would that life feel like? Somehow I am convinced I’d still find a way to be anxious and questioning my choices. There would be different worries (my friend circle? Source of income? A very vague feeling that I could’ve learned to write better? Maybe they wouldn’t be all that different after all) but I doubt I’d escape unscathed. It is a fun exercise to indulge in right before your birthday though, considering all the lives you could’ve had.

Life with three kids can be intense and sometimes James and I joke about what our lives could be like if we remained childfree (lots of spare cash, probably a seaside apartment instead of a house, much travel and delicious food and should I mention loads of uninterrupted sleep) but ultimately we both agree that it would’ve come with a sense of loss even if we didn’t exactly know what that loss was about. I’m sure there are people who don’t long for children but I struggle to imagine being one of them. It’s one of those choices in life I can’t imagine not making and it seems inevitable, just like moving from my hometown to St Petersburg and then to Australia, maybe because I imagine the kind of regret I’d have had very clearly.

And then there are choices in life that seem a bit less clear cut. Choosing one job over another (I nearly went to Ireland instead of Australia). Choosing sailing over surfing. Ending or continuing a friendship. While some of them seem more important than the other, do we really know which ones are true bifurcation points?

I am still fairly sure I’d arrive at some version of me that might be physically slightly different but fundamentally the same. Somehow I cannot imagine a version of me who doesn’t overthink or who is more confident than sensitive. I’d probably be tortured by different things. I might fight joy in different things, too. Yet it appears to me that through any circumstances my own self would inevitably crystallise and if all those versions of me ever met they would all enjoy a conversation about what it means to be me, just like I’m enjoying writing this post right now.

Then again, it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t add that I could be completely wrong about all of it.