[Essay] Lessons from Teahupo’o

By Sally Elley

When I took up surfing while living in San Diego, I envisioned that I would eventually get barreled. It would be in tropical water, I imagined, sunlight glinting off my relaxed smile. I would stand gracefully inside the tube of the wave. And I would probably raise my arms in triumph.

Twenty years have passed. I’ve surfed all over the world, including the long left of Chicama in Peru, and the long paddle-out of Canggu in Bali. I’ve surfed in full suit and hood in Canada and all along the coast of the Pacific Northwest.  I’ve paddled out in Mexico and in El Salvador. Although my love for surfing has never waned, I’ve never been barreled. I’ve only gotten close exactly one time, on an inside close-out at La Jolla Shores. The wave pummeled me on impact. I emerged dazed, coughing, and scared.

My body has been gradually unravelling ever since the births of our two sons.  Age, along with moving to Seattle—where good surf is several hours away—has put my chances of getting barreled slimmer by the day.  Regardless, when we booked a trip to Tahiti in the fall, I found myself frequently revisiting my vision. I would pause at the kitchen window, images of hollow tubes appearing through the winter rain.  Tahiti, I thought, might be my last chance to get barreled.

The months leading up to the trip were consumed with life—raising and feeding our children, completing graduate school term papers, addressing abuse of power in our faith community. There was little time to exercise. I could hardly get through ten practice pop-ups in the living room. When our family finally stepped off the plane and onto the island of Tahiti, I was emotionally exhausted and physically soft.

The plan was to surf every other day. We would start in Papara. We would check out Teahupo’o by boat—not to surf, but just to see the world’s heaviest wave in person.  We would take the kids up North to surf some beginner waves. We would not focus our entire vacation on surfing, but we would be preoccupied by surfing most of the time.  How could one think otherwise in such an opportunistic place? 

The first waves I paddled out to in Papara were head high and intimidating. While my husband flew down the line, I struggled on the outside. I was just so tired. In my delirium, I’d even forgotten to take my sunglasses off.

A few days later, we drove around the island to the end of the road--Teahupo’o. We had booked a tour that included visiting the wave, snorkeling, and river swimming. The boat driver greeted us with some interesting news. The waves were small, and surfable.

“Bring your boards.”

I watched my excited husband dive off the boat and paddle toward that mystical, iconic break. He settled in right away, dropping in on a set and disappearing down the face of the wave. I was so stoked for him, as if I, too, were riding the wave. Our young sons hooted encouragement from the upper deck of the boat;forget the size, their dad was surfing Teahupo’o! After a while, my husband paddled back to us. The captain prepared to pull away so we could continue on our tour. I asked him to stop. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be near Teahupo’o.

“Could I just get in the water?” I asked.

I paddled toward Teahupo’o, sensing the energy of the wave, feeling alive in the warm and powerful water. I stopped outside the takeoff point and sat up. I watched a group of women, most likely half my age, having a blast.  They appeared to be the German national team, training for the Olympics. They waved at me, welcoming me to join them. I wavered. I knew I wasn’t able, physically or mentally for Teahupo’o, even on its smallest day. I knew in that moment, that I would never be barreled on a surfboard.

I stayed balanced on the board for several minutes. The board drifted with the oncoming rollers. I could see the jungle rising as hills and cliff faces, forming layers of green on green, a backdrop to the end of the road. I could hear my children laughing and playing in the water, jumping off the boat.

What was it like to be barreled, anyway? What was it like to stand upright inside a wave and be completely surrounded—yet unscathed—-by a force of nature?

I had heard surfers talk about being barreled as a transcendental experience, like seeing the face of God, a deeply spiritual moment. I had read that for some surfers, it felt as if time stood still. Getting barreled seemed to be a flow experience--as Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi would have defined it— fleeting seconds in which maximum potential and maximum effort meet as joy. It certainly seemed to be, as educational philosopher Nel Noddings wrote, ‘ecstatic happiness’.

Still balanced in the water, I thought back over the year. I remembered the moment I experienced a profound sense of calm, right at the height of my religious crisis. I recalled total immersion into a flow state while toiling over papers for graduate school. As for moments of ecstatic happiness? Those had come almost daily, with my family. Snuggling on the couch with my youngest son as he carefully read his first chapter book, watching my eldest handily convert a leaf blower into a pitching machine for backyard baseball--these were moments in which time stood still and pure joy emerged. 

I turned back to the young women dropping in on the world’s heaviest wave. Most likely, these girls would be surfing this very wave in the upcoming Olympic Games. Most likely, one of them would raise her arms in triumph inside the tube of a barrel, sunlight glinting off of her serene smile.

A feeling of frustrated mediocrity swept over me. I wanted to wallow in self-pity. I wanted to cry. I wanted to feel worthless. But that wasn’t necessary.

“You go on without me,” I whispered to the surfers, to the wave, to the pursuit. “I’ve been

barreled enough this year.”

And with a quick turn on my board, I paddled back to the boat—to my family, to the complexities of religion, to the challenges of education, to the barrels of life.

Sally Elley is a mother and a teacher. She lives in Seattle with her family. She savors any opportunity to get in the water, even if it means donning booties and a hood for a frigid paddle-out in the PNW.