The Death of an Adrenaline Junkie

We floated on our backs buoyant from the saltwater, holding hands. The small lagoon that opened to the ocean was a nice reprieve. We’d hiked in silent and heavy heat within view of Pele's Chair, a seat-shaped lava rock formation located almost dead-center between a half dozen dormant volcanoes on the eastern tip of Oahu.

Andrea released her grip and swam to climb up onto some rocks.

“They ruined my vibe,” she said, lifting her chin to indicate the group of twenty-somethings passing around the forty ouncer of Fireball as they sat talking loudly in the shallow water next to us.

We knew we shouldn't judge. We'd been there. We had a few nights to remember; a few skeletons. We'd been friends since we were fifteen, after all.

We’d surprised each other on this trip to learn that we were both on a new path now. We’d both stopped drinking, were eating healthily, working out everyday, prioritizing sleep, and dedicating time to self study. This wasn't achieved with a snap of the fingers, but it was intentional on both of our parts. We agreed; this new lifestyle had us feeling so alive!

Both Andrea and I considered it a privilege to know who we were, what we wanted, and to say “no” to forms of numbing that may have previously pulled us from “living our best lives.”

As a chronic worrier, I wondered however, if somehow defining ourselves too clearly was also self-limiting in a way. Were the changes I’d made over the past six years putting me in a box? Wasn’t the path to peace supposed to feel more peaceful? I may have had bright eyes and clear skin on the outside, but on the inside, I sometimes secretly mourned the death of my own personal adrenaline junkie. 

The next day Andrea's eighteen year-old daughter, Tyler, took me swimming at Hanone Blowhole Lookout, the beach made famous in the movie, From Here to Eternity, where Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolled around making out on the sand, as the waves lapped up on them.

I picked my way down the lava rock steps watching the swimmers below being thrashed around by the churling currents. After depositing our towels and shoes, I began to walk to the water.

Tyler gestured another route. “Going the locals’ way.”

I looked up to see the lava rocks we were climbing alongside the water.

"Didn't your mother tell you I'm afraid of everything?" the words escaped from me desperate and sotto voce. 

She shrugged and turned away from me, jumping into the frollicking blue and white below.

Quelling that part of me I hate; the overthinker, the analyst, the safety girl - I forced myself to jump without hesitating. The cool salt water rushed up my nose and tugged my bathing suit bottoms down.

I was alive!

Warmed by the sun later, I wondered at what point in our lives do we start to say, “I used to do that”?

“I used to play soccer. I used to figure skate. I was a pretty good singer. I used to play second base and have a good arm - consistently getting the runner out on the way to home – ”

It doesn't matter how old we are, we all do it. We leave our past selves in the past, often in search of an evolution of sorts, but sometimes just because an opportunity stops presenting itself. We roll along, busy, and then every once in a while a glimpse in the rearview mirror drops a stone on our hearts that feels like regret.

Sometimes we call this self-awareness. We say that we know ourselves so well, that we have intentionally chosen to leave certain things behind. And yet, I wonder if it’s just easier to “think” our new selves into being and stop trying things that are hard, different, or new, because we can’t control the outcome, or we may look foolish for a moment. And yet, what happens to our spirits when we do this continually? Should every point of growth be only internal in nature, because an outside observer can’t witness or judge our progress or mistakes?

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that self-knowledge can become a cage that we put ourselves into. When we know ourselves so well and label ourselves so clearly, then perhaps becoming defined is only a short jaunt from being confined. Perhaps our creations must be shared with and witnessed by others in order to truly be expansive in nature.

The last day of my trip, my friend Andrea had to work, so her husband of thirty years, Dave, a professional volleyball coach, surprised me.

"Today, we go surfing," he said.

I exhale my misery; I hate these fucking lifelong athletes, I think to myself; who adopt a new sport as easily as I would choose a new hair colour.

My hands fumble as I pack my water bottle, towel, and sunscreen and climb into the truck. Tyler is with us, teasing me, because she knows that I scare easily.

I keep sliding off my board sideways as we're paddling out at Queen's Beach in Waikiki. Seems like forever; and my muscular arms and shoulders threaten to out me further as a rookie. 

"Keep the nose up. I'll push you when the wave comes," Dave says. "Then pop up."

We agree I'll start on my knees.

Things are going well. I'm not injured, even though the water is as busy as any Ontario 400 series highway. I'm getting the hang of things. I'm on and off my board with ease now. Tyler is beside me, riding a few small waves on her own; happy and tanned.

About my sixth try, it feels like I’m on the wave so long that I jokingly think to myself, “What now? Do I make a sandwich?”

I realize that I have plenty of time to get my front foot out from underneath me, and midline onto the board. Then the back foot lands. I'm in a crouch holding the edge of the board with one hand, and here I stay, grinning with disbelief. The ride is long, easy, light, and so unbelievably fun.

And just for a moment, irrational thoughts pop into my mind: I can’t go home. I have to stay here. I have to surf every day now. I feel, for the moment, that anything is possible for me.

Just before I tip off the side into the water, I see an orange board out of the corner of my eye. I manage to shift my weight and avoid a collision, but worry that I've cut this guy off. Dave hasn’t explained anything about surfing etiquette, but I figure some things are universal.

“Hey, sorry for cutting you off back there.” I figure I don't need to tell him that I'm new.

He has brown skin and a gold tooth. He smiles.

“No, you surf your way. You're good. You're strong.” He spends a few minutes giving me pointers, then gives me a push back out into the deeper water.

I am lit up and incredulous at this exchange. I can't wait to get back to Dave and share the victory. "Let's not waste any waves," I say, hurrying back into position.

He laughs, overjoyed at how much I so obviously love this. "Okay Bodhi. Okay Keanu."

As I lay my head on the pillow that night, my hair is thick with salt and my heart is full of gratitude. I can't believe I learned something new. I can't believe I did something new.

Two and a half hours in the ocean reminded me that expansion is always possible. Sometimes you just have to paddle out to meet it.