An embarrassing confession from a beach lover

Lolita Harper

I have a horrible confession to make. I am not proud of it and know

many of you will disavow me as your community columnist for hiding

such a criminal past. I only hope you understand that I am working to

overcome this issue and plan to get back on the right track as soon

as possible.

I felt the weight of my past on Friday as I walked along the

beach. It was the first day the sun had shone through the dark clouds

in a week. The rain had ceased, and I was again reminded that I live

in paradise. I looked out onto the water, as it thrashed softly

against the sand.

It was then I made the commitment to myself to change my foolish

ways:

“I am going to learn how to surf,” I vowed.

How I could have grown up in Southern California (a few years in

Costa Mesa, the rest in Irvine) and not have taken up the sport, I

don’t know.

I was born on the Gulf of Mexico and was in the ocean at 3 months

old. I have never lived more than 20 minutes from the beach (except

for four torturous college years) and wore flip-flops so often as a

child that a permanent gap grew between my first and second toes.

I could swim by the age of 3 and was fearless in the water. I

would venture out so far into the ocean that my mom had to make the

knee-high rule, which I always bent to waist-high.

“You are my little fish,” my mom would tell me.

I have no siblings, but was always very close with a brood of

rowdy boy cousins. I was the only girl. We used to stay in the water

until our toes and fingers looked like raisins, triple-dog-daring

each other to venture farther and farther into the ocean.

I always won. Chickens.

As time went on, our beach trips changed, and we ditched our

boogie boards and fins. My cousins replaced theirs with surfboards,

and I traded mine in for a bottle of tanning lotion.

The sun was out, and it was my calling to worship it. I would not

get my hair wet and, quite frankly, my swimsuits could no longer

withstand the rigorous water torture I once subjected them to. I was

a bonafide beach bunny and I was content watching the boys, instead

of outperforming them.

High school brought long hours of softball and soccer practice,

studying, college entrance exams and applications, and the beach

seemed like a distant luxury. Later, I was stranded inland at USC

without a car and didn’t make it to the beach for years. A year of

living in the San Fernando Valley, and I was dying to come back to my

coastal roots.

“What do you mean it takes an hour and 20 minutes to get to the

beach?”

Now I am back. Back where the ocean breeze chills the cool night

air and you can smell the salt. My sun-worshiping days are over, and

my drive to take on another athletic challenge is heightening. I

still play softball and soccer and have started boxing. It is time to

add surfing to my athletic resume.

My little cousin Aaron -- a freshman at Newport Harbor High School

-- is an avid surfer, and I am tempted to join him, like I should

have joined my older kinfolk years ago.

Nearly every guy I know here surfs. Everywhere I go, I hear people

talking about the waves, the offshore this and onshore that.

Surfing is a major part of this community. One of my interview

questions from editors Tony Dodero and S.J. Cahn was, “Do you surf?”

What kind of local columnist would I be if I didn’t experience one

of the best things this area has to offer. I wouldn’t be doing my job

if I did not learn how to surf.

So, if you see some girl out on the beach with a board in hand and

a confused look on her face, come on over, say hi, and help me

overcome this embarrassing shortcoming.

* LOLITA HARPER writes columns Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays

and covers culture and the arts. She may be reached at (949) 574-4275

or by e-mail at [email protected].