Fight, Flight, Or Wait—Lessons From Surfing

There’s a collective impression around surfing that makes it undeniably inviting—that it is exhilarating, rewarding, and deeply fulfilling. And while all of that is true, learning how to surf can also be incredibly exhausting and frustrating.

I’m talking about the tedious walk to the beach, carrying a surfboard twice your height when you’ve never set foot in a gym your entire life. Then there’s the fatigue from overworking untrained muscles, amplified by inefficient paddling—too far forward, too far back. Not to mention the reef cuts and bruises, sprained this and that, fractured bones, jellyfishes, stingrays, or even sharks.

With that being said, many of my friends instantly fell in love with surfing after their first ride. But that was unfortunately not the case for me. In fact, my inaugural surfing experience felt like something straight out of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, where Jack Nicholson axes his way through a door, pops his head out, and delivers that iconic line, “Here’s Johnny!”

It was in 2015 when I joined my friends on a whim for a getaway to Siargao, a tropical gem in the southeastern part of the Philippines. We booked a cottage in Greenhouse, a beachfront villa nestled within tropical greeneries and vegetable gardens. I envisioned lazy days with a good book and bottomless coffee. But as fate would have it, we did a whole lot of different things other than reading.

My friends, in their infinite wisdom, decided that Rock Island was the perfect place to take me for my initiation. Had I taken the time to read about Rock Island, it would have been an automatic no.

A quick Google search should take you to surfsiargao.com where you’ll find the following information:

Rock Island can be a tricky (difficult) wave to surf. The waves move pretty fast and the drops are steep. If you make a wrong move (falling on the drop, getting caught inside) you'll end up down in the wash out and it's a frustrating & long paddle back out to the channel. The current is moving against you and the white water keeps coming and coming and coming.. It can be exhausting just getting back to the line up.

The website also said that this place is best for “experienced surfers looking for a fast drop, thick wall, and hollow barreling end section.” But as I’ve mentioned earlier, reading was not part of our itinerary.

So, we hopped on an outrigger boat, known as pump boat or pambot by the locals, completely oblivious to the details written above. As we got closer to Rock Island, I started seeing people soaring through the air with their surfboards seemingly glued to their feet that I genuinely thought there were some sort of straps holding their feet in place.

That’s how clueless I was.

True to its name, Rock Island is a giant, jagged rock jutted out of the water like the broken teeth of a sea monster. I sat there thinking of all possible ways it could end badly, my heart pumping so hard I was convinced I was having a panic attack. I remember thinking—This can’t be it.

But that exactly was it.

The boatman shut the engine down and started tossing our surfboards on to the sea. My friends, seasoned surfers with their golden skin and casual confidence, were laughing as they took turns jumping into the ocean. They scattered away, each one swimming towards their surfboards, and finally on to the direction of Rock Island.

When it was finally my turn to jump, I had to fight against every instinct screaming at me to stay safe on dry land. My friends’ encouraging words didn’t matter. Everything was now all drowned out by my own rising panic.

I don’t remember how I got to the lineup but I remember the moment my instructor, Balong, pushed me on a wave. I heard him yell—Stand up! But I was in such a deep shock at that point that all I could do was cling tightly to the rails of my board, still lying flat on my stomach. My body felt frozen as if I were a spectator in my own experience. I was completely helpless.

How NOT to Navigate the Impact Zone

I soon found myself inside one of the scariest places I’ve ever been—the notorious impact zone. It’s the part of the ocean that surfsiargao.com warned people about, the part where the white water “keeps coming and coming and coming.” When the surf is big and heavy just like that one fateful day, combined with my skills—or lack thereof—the impact zone becomes synonymous with death.

I didn’t realize how much trouble I was in until I saw my friends yelling and gesturing frantically for me to get the hell out of there. But none of them taught me how to “get the hell out of there” so I tried to paddle towards “somewhere that is not there.”

I had all the right intentions except I was paddling parallel to the waves which I inconveniently learned later that day was a surefire way to invite disaster. Every time I managed to get on my surfboard, a wave would rear up, seemingly saying, “Here’s Johnny!” Except this was real life, and I had nowhere to hide.

I’d get caught inside a wave for what would feel like a lifetime, resurface, only to get slammed by another set of waves again. I was sputtering and gasping for air, clinging to my board as if it were a lifeline—because it was.

I was at the mercy of the ocean. But the ocean does not care whom it rewards or punishes. It does not know how to favor or discriminate. It is neither mean nor kind; neither a friend nor a foe. It was like the ocean had its own language, a series of patterns that I could not yet comprehend.

Balong eventually came to rescue me. Everything was timed and perfectly executed. It was as if he knew the ocean’s every move, like he had mastered that secret language that only those who have truly dedicated their lives to the sea would understand.

He got me safely back to the lineup, but I simply didn’t have enough willpower to give it another shot. Instead, I waited on the boat with another friend who had just been stung by a jellyfish. We sat quietly, both in disbelief, while our friends reveled in the waves, blissfully unaware of our stunned silence.

Three Years Later

My best friend, Jo, somehow convinced me to go surfing with her. She had just come back from a month-long surf trip and wouldn’t shut up about it. So I said—Fine, I’ll go with you.

The thought of diving back into that chaos made my stomach feel funny. But Jo had this infectious ball of energy that lightened the weight of my worries. She didn’t really offer any profound wisdom. She simply promised we’d find some smaller waves, and that her friend, Mang Alain, would be there to guide me.

Mang Alain had a reassuring smile on his face, and when I told him about my first surfing experience, he said something that I still remember to this day.

When you get caught inside a wave, your instinct will tell you to do everything in your power to escape. You might want to swim back up for air, kicking or flailing your arms around. And when you realize it is utterly useless, you start to panic.

With surfing, it is not just fight or flight. There will be plenty of times where you will be forced to make the conscious decision to wait. You will have to convince yourself that it’s okay for the wave to swallow you whole, and once you feel that the wave has passed, that’s when you gather all your strength to swim up to get back on your board.

Stay calm; don’t waste your energy fighting something you have no power over, he said.

Isn’t that also true in life? When disaster hits us and we feel overwhelmed, our automatic response would be to get away from that situation as quickly as possible. We often deny ourselves the experience of defeat, so we wear masks of contentment, convincing the world—and ourselves—that we’re doing just fine. We turn to drugs as quick fixes. We drown ourselves in entertainment and temporary pleasures. We’ll go to great lengths to avoid discomfort when what we really need to do is simply wait.

Soon enough, I found myself on a boat with Jo, Mang Alain, and our other friends. When we got to an island called Daku, I felt that familiar mix of dread and anticipation. The island, thick with greenery, framed by powdery, white sand, was a sight to behold, except for the waves that loomed larger and more menacing than Jo had described.

But there was no turning back. Once the boatman unloaded our boards, it was time to jump. Jo paddled out, her movements fluid and assured. Taking a deep breath, I followed her, my board bobbing beneath me as I flung my arms around. We finally reached a spot where the waves looked more manageable.

Let’s just stay here and catch the smaller ones, she said.

I nodded, trying to mirror her enthusiasm even though I did not have the faintest idea about what the heck was going on or what was about to go on.

The first wave rolled in. Mang Alain told me to get ready. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. He pushed me on a wave anyway, and sure enough, I planted my face straight into the sea. But I was not about to go back to the boat and wait hours for the others. With a bit of a pep talk from Mang Alain that heavily emphasized on committing to the wave, I decided I was ready for the next one.

Paddle! Mang Alain yelled.

I complied, this time fully committed, heart hammering as I positioned myself. Mang Alain helped me with a push, and as the wave caught me on, everything around me receded into the background. I found myself standing on the ocean, compos mentis, feeling nothing but pure bliss.

I could hear the people behind me cheering. They were just as happy, if not more, for me. That was my first taste of what it feels like to be truly, unapologetically alive.

In a blink, the wave broke beneath me, and I was tumbled into the sea again. My initial reaction was panic, and then I remembered the words of Mang Alain—stay calm.

The more I found myself inside the whirlwind of a wave, the more I got used to the feeling. It still terrifies me to this day, but it has become a constant, humbling reminder that we really don’t stand a chance against the forces of nature—and that’s okay. It has grounded me to the inevitable truth of our vulnerability and physical finitude, allowing me to make peace with Johnny who will eventually come to get us all.

We were out there until the sun started to dip lower in the sky, painting everything in warm golds and pinks. My friends and I took turns riding the waves, and we’d occasionally try to catch one together. If the ocean was a person, the waves would be its heartbeat, and being on that same heartbeat with your favorite people is a feeling like no other.

There were long lulls in between sets of waves, but no one felt the need to fill in the silence. It seemed like everyone silently agreed to be in that moment. I would catch a glimpse of other people around me—Jo and Mang Alain among others—and they would also be looking at the horizon, caught up in the same magic of the vibrant display of colors stretching across the sky.

It was when I knew that I might just be willing to dedicate my life to the ocean. It was in that exact moment that I fell in love with surfing.

Nothing else mattered that day. It didn’t matter that my face was now severely sunburnt, and that my arms were now burning in pain from paddling. It didn’t matter that we would have piles of responsibilities waiting for us when we got home. None of us had jobs—some still in college, others still drifting between college and proper adulthood—but no one made us feel ashamed about it. We were all equal in the eyes of nature.

It was more than just the lucid feeling from riding wave after wave that didn’t seem to end. It was a sanctuary, a glimpse of what it is like to be truly free, a reprieve from the relentless demands of everyday life. A salvation, if you will.