Finishing sensible or strong?

The Amaru adventure is wrapping up. There’s a Friday night pizza party, public invited, and a couple of groups from other surf camps show up. One is a bunch of twenty-something Aussie and Kiwi guys who have obviously been pre-gaming. I’m seated at one of the picnic tables, as a local man attempts to sell me some of his handmade jewelry. A small-framed artist with hope in his eyes, he’s pitched me several times on turtle-themed necklaces and bracelets, but I hadn’t had any cash when I’d seen him before. Tonight I brought a fistful of cordobas to dinner in anticipation of giving him what I have left.

I don’t need the jewelry, and neither do my wife and daughter, but they will be happy I thought of them, and this enterprising craftsman will be happy too. One of the gifts of travel is becoming, if only for a few fleeting moments, a man of means. This is an unusual position for me; it’s not as if I’m buying Rolexes at home. Not real ones anyway. So, I’m feeling good that I can give this man the last of my local currency when one of the Aussies steps to the table and looks down on the crafts with a sneer.

Whatta we got here, boy? He blurts, grabbing a handful of the artist’s handmade jewelry. Buncha crap?

He drops the jewelry on the table in a heap.

The Aussie’s mates give the blowhard the appreciative laugh he’s looking for as they move past. The small-framed artist smiles nervously at the Aussie bully.

I don’t. It’s not just that he’d insulted the young craftsman; he’s broken the Amaru spell, which feels like a personal affront.

Sit down, I say to Down Under.

What? he says, as if noticing me for the first time. I didn’t hear you.

Just go hang with your buddies, I say. We’re doing something here.

This stops him, and for a moment, he considers his response and me. I’m about the same size as this guy, but easily twice his age, and I can see that, even drunk, he’s not about to pick a fight with some pudgy geezer in front of his boys. That just wouldn’t be cool.

All right, mate, he says loudly. You buy all the crap you want!

And with that, he’s gone over to his boys, and I’m left in the shattered spell of Amaru, the one with the names on the plates and the relentlessly positive and respectful vibe. As I pay the small-framed artist for two turtle bracelets, I realize now how lucky I’ve been to spend a week in this supportive little cocoon of positivity.

Well, reality had to return sooner or later.

Without the names on plates forcing socialization, we naturally break into the small groups that we arrived with. Rob, Fred, Victor, and I dig into personal pizzas. There’s a celebratory air, which is nice, but something is over too. The three of us raise bottles of Tona, toasting to Amaru, and then to Victor. The beer tastes particularly smooth and good tonight, and I’m tempted to finish this and order just one more, when Gerritt, Amaru’s proprietor, stops by the table.

Hope everyone is stoked for tomorrow, he says. It'll be the biggest swell we've had this week. Maybe we'll find a couple of standout sets that'll be, you know, eight-foot.

Eight-foot faces? I repeat in a way that questions my stoke.

Gerritt picks up on the vibe: Well, no wave you have to take, man, he says.

Now the Tona beer has lost its sweetness. After an Irish goodnight, I slip off to my room where I’m greeted by a chorus of self-doubt, masquerading as sensibility.

You’ve managed to make it through seven days of surfing on that left knee, take the win, sit the day out, and go home in one piece, says the voice.

It’s not the dumbest idea in the world.

Seven months ago, I had surgery to repair a ruptured patellar tendon, which came only four months after double knee replacement surgery. I’ve put my knees through a lot. When I told my doctor and physical therapist about this trip and my plan to try to surf, they were not supportive.

We just tested your left knee, said Courtney, the PT, and it has less than half the strength of your right knee. And after your knee replacements on both, neither is as strong as they should be to do the things you’re asking them to do.

Courtney was right, of course, but the week has proven her wrong. Or maybe I’ve just been lucky. Now the specter of returning home reinjured and starting over again, maybe with another surgery, seems particularly insane. I’d be back on crutches, alone and helpless again. Not only would it take me back into the pain cave, but everyone in my life would have one more confirmation of what a fool I’d become. They’ll shake their heads, tsk tsking… guy just doesn’t have the sense he was born with.

Which may be just as painful.

You’ve seen what you came to see, and it’s all exceeded expectations. The people have been cooler, the place more beautiful, and the god of transformation may have planted some seeds of sensibility. What do you have left to prove? Stay in the boat, and film everyone else surfing the big lefthand point break.

I fall asleep feeling sensible and sixty-something.

In the middle of the night, I sit bolt upright, already talking to myself: When are you ever going to get a chance to do this again? To surf Nicaraguan waves on a left point, from a boat, with a surf coach who’s steering you into just the right place? Carpe f-in diem. Is the premise of the show you’re filming Older and Bolder or Tired and Timid?

Yeah, but what if it becomes Reckless and Ruined?