Surfing and Massage

Tortilla chips and salsa fresca. Margaritas and salt. Surfing and a massage. These are for me delicious pairings. If all six of these occur in the span of one day, it’s a heavenly experience. But if you had told me two years ago that I would find my masseuse at church I would not have believed you.

I had been treating myself to a massage once a month since I had my babies, until they turned four and seven years old and my beloved masseuese moved to the East Coast. That was when I found out Jeannie was a masseuse. But mentally I could not make the transition from sitting with her on a couch covered in Scotch Presbyterian plaid while the Deacons served tea, to sprawling naked under her hands on a massage table.

Then one day in church she gave me a hug. This quiet unassuming woman who could slip unnoticed from the room hugged like a linebacker. Played fiddle in a Celtic band on Sunday morning as if she were at an Irish wedding. And belted out hymns in the choir as if her singing voice bore no relation to the one we strained to hear when she made an announcement from the pulpit. Suddenly I saw this woman for who she was and I drew one conclusion: deep tissue massage.

The first time she gave me a massage I had to ask her to let up.

Fridays are the days I treat myself. I surf whenever possible on Fridays. I book my massage on Fridays. The best Fridays are the ones where I do both.

Surfing is a physical and spiritual experience that surpasses all others. Surfing requires physical strength. It requires courage and humility, both the ability to take on the hazards inherent in the ocean and the acknowledgment than it is more powerful than you are. Surfing is meditation. It is an activity that allows you to be utterly consumed in the moment. When you are sitting in the lineup, you are focused on the next wave and nothing else.

Surfing is like making love. The more days you surf the more you want to. It is a total sensory experience, where all the nerve endings are awakened and soothed when they are immersed in water. And climbing into bed after surfing, the body is satiated and relaxed and lulled into sleep. Surfing and massage are a perfect combination.

One Friday in June, I drove up the coast from Santa Cruz and surfed a well-known “secret” spot. It turned out to be a good day, with shoulder high sets at about five minute intervals. But when I reached for my wetsuit I realized I had left it at home.

Surfing the Pacific Ocean on Northern California’s coast almost certainly requires a wetsuit. Some souls brave it in shorts or a bikini, but they don’t last an hour. And conditions are windier, colder, and rougher north of Santa Cruz than they are in town. I scoured my van for every piece of warmth, and ended up in the water in a blistering wind, wearing a pair of board shorts, a polar rash guard, hood, and booties. To paddle out there in so little neoprene I had to have been out of mind.

At first I stayed warm catching waves, but the when wind kicked up even stronger and knocked down the waves, I froze. After ten minutes of sitting, I knew if I didn’t catch a wave right away I would be too stiff to paddle. It wouldn’t take long to become hypothermic in those waters. I paddled toward the rocks and caught one inside to the beach.

The sun-warmed sand protected from the wind by a stand of rocks would have thawed me out in no time, but I had a massage to get to. I kept my hood on as I walked back to the van.

Jeannie’s massages were so heavenly I had recently started forking out the extra money for an additional half hour. An hour massage was not long enough. A one and a half hour full body massage was perfect; it left you wanting more but feeling good and relaxed. Relaxed like jelly. Relaxed like driving home you were a hazard on the road.

When I arrived at Jeannie’s house after surfing up the coast in a pair of board shorts, she turned on the heater and gave me a blanket. After a good while I warmed up, except for my “extremities.” Customarily after I have been surfing, she warms towels on the space heater and wraps them around my feet. On this particular day she put the warm towels on my buns.

I told Jeannie right then that she was already the world’s best masseuse, but when she ccreated the bun warmers, she became royalty in my eyes.