One of the first things we learned about our host when we arrived in this El Salvadorian beach town is that her brother is one of the best surfers in the country.
He even owns his own Christian surfing company, and they give lessons to groups.
So a group of us signed up.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to surf but I put my name down anyway. I wasn’t disappointed when it was postponed. Then postponed again. Then scheduled rain or shine.
Laying there on my surfboard in the sand as the sun set behind me and a thunderstorm could be seen off in the distance, I realized the real reason I didn’t want to go surfing: I was more afraid of an injury to my ego than an injury to my body.
I’m not super athletic. Not super coordinated. Not super… well, anything really.
I couldn’t even get up on my board properly in the sand. What made me think I’d be able to do it in the water?
What if I was the only one who didn’t make it to my feet? What if I was the remedial help girl? What if they told me to give up and stick to the land?
It wouldn’t be the first time.
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