Three weeks in Vietnam, and not a single wave to speak of. With over 3200 km of coastline from tip to tip, you’d expect a Cali kid with a motorbike and a psychological addiction to riding waves wouldn’t have any trouble getting by. But it was not so. Sure, surfing may have been far from my primary intention of being there, but too much time out of the water was nonetheless getting to me.

I could feel my gills starting to dry out. The internet said there was surfing here sometimes, so it must be true. My incessant optimism was starting to play against me, as I knew – but had chosen to forget – that it was the off season, and the lucky Filipinos had a bunch of islands a few thousands kilometers away which blocked and soaked up most of the larger ocean swell.

Oh well, seeing as my hostel was two blocks from the beach, I figured if I could find something to ride, I might as well paddle out just to get the shoulder joints moving.

During a meander down the road one day, I stumbled upon a small cafe that was trying and only somewhat succeeding at being surf themed. Upon entering, my eyes were drawn to a couple beat up longboards racked on the wall. The place was empty, apart from an old Vietnamese man staring at me quizzically, with a look that said “why are you interrupting my relaxing afternoon to bring me business?”. By this point, I’d been in Vietnam long enough to be used to this expression, which contradicted all my well-honed Western capitalistic instincts.

I pointed at the surfboard, and mumbled something, knowing there was very little chance he spoke English. He looked at me blankly for a few seconds, then pulled out a 100,000 dong ($4) bill to show me how much it would cost to rent it for the day. I was so excited, I didn’t even haggle, and quickly handed over the money. Gingerly tucking the massive board under my arm, I trotted eagerly in the direction of the beach, past scores of locals squatting on bright plastic sidewalk stools, enjoying their steaming bowls of pho.

Upon arriving where the ocean met sand, I was startled to see lines of ripples approaching the shore, and rearing up a fierce two feet tall before abruptly transforming into a foamy mess. From my viewpoint peering over an eclectic assortment of Vietnamese families engaged in their ritual late afternoon swim, it seemed like they might even be ride-able.

Skipping my warmup stretch routine, I dove into the water and began paddling past throngs of confused but curious people splashing around. The voluminous hunk of fiberglass underneath me shot forward at a surprising clip.

Miraculously, just as I maneuvered my clunky companion to where the waves were tumbling over a shallow sandbar, the swell began to rise. What started as fairly abysmal conditions moved into the range of slightly better than mediocre. But my level of stoke was so high at having found passable surf in a seemingly hopeless environment, it felt like I was dreaming.

Now as any surfer knows, waves are only one part of the equation when it comes to the reasons why we often sacrifice so much of our life on land to commune with the ocean. Another factor is the forced presence that comes along with replacing your phone, computer, and most of your friends with the salty air and vast expanse of unpredictable water. With that presence comes the ability to immerse yourself in magnificent scenery with nowhere else to be, and no temptation to take a picture of it for your Instagram.

As the sun said its goodbyes for the day and sank beneath the horizon, the mountain range to my north was perfectly silhouetted against a pure indigo sky. At the base of the silhouette was a two hundred foot tall Buddha statue, shimmering in a soft pink light. I felt it watching me, sending me peaceful vibes. Looking back towards the shore, the final rays of the sun painted the shifting ocean surface dozens of shades of orange. Calming Asian flute music originating from a beach-side establishment drifted lazily through the air, putting a cherry on top of what was already a surreal situation.

But the tranquility didn’t last long. The thick, moisture-laden air from the day rose high into the troposphere, cooling down and condensing into threatening anvil shaped clouds. Just as darkness was beginning to fall, all the latent heat energy came crackling down in brilliant bolts of white light. Two different storms on either side of the beach began their performance. Close enough to charge for front row seats, but far enough away so they didn’t pose an immediate threat to my perfectly exposed figure.

While all of this was unfolding, something awoke within me. I began catching the longest peeling right-handed waves of my life, riding each one for what seemed like an eternity. My state of flow was so deep, that my body began doing things wonderfully unfamiliar to me. At one point, I gracefully danced to the front of my board and hung five toes off the nose. What just a few minutes ago had been something I’d only ever seen done on TV now seemed effortless. Wave after wave carried me fluidly across the glassy pastel-colored water, while a crowd of flabbergasted Vietnamese children swimming nearby cheered every time I glided past them.

The more the light faded, the more the natural beauty of the landscape became replaced by the artificial beauty of the row of hotel buildings lining the beach. The Vegas-style, multicolored neon lights emanating from the tall edifices made for a welcome surprise. Just as I was mentally preparing myself to return to land, I realized the lights were so bright I could still barely make out the shape of the undulating swell out at sea.

What followed was the part of the experience seared deepest into my visual memory. Whenever I judged a bumpy shadow approaching me to be a viable wave, I’d turn, paddle hard, and stand up to be catapulted across an inky black stretch of liquid speckled with a dazzling array of neon colors. It was like surfing in the middle of a rainbow disco ball. I couldn’t stop, and continued to flow late into the night until my stomach was literally bleeding from board rash.

When I finally exited the water, I shocked a flock of beachgoers by jogging out of the dark shallows grinning ear to ear. At first they clearly didn’t know how to react, then one by one they took out their phones and started taking pictures of me. The paparazzi flashes guided my sandy feet forward until I reached the sidewalk, after which I was absorbed back into the city.

——-

Ever since surfing mercilessly hijacked a part of my brain a few years ago, I’ve struggled in casual conversations to vocalize why it’s become such an important activity for me. Experiences like the one I just described happen more often than you’d expect. While they can be difficult to articulate, they’re often full of meaning.

For a few brief moments during that evening, my consciousness was merged with that of the ocean. It was no longer me as a separate object trying to outsmart the dynamic surface underneath me. I became seamlessly integrated with my board and each wave underneath it, effortlessly aware of the subtle clues being offered as to where they would go next.

Unlike the way I still live much of my life on land, there was no analysis, no rational decision making, and no planning. It was just a beautifully thoughtless dance between human and nature. An intense state of focus, but completely devoid of stress or resistance. If you go out on the water with a clear mind and the attitude of a student, there’s no limit to what you can learn.