Last mom standing

"It's not as easy as it looks," said my cousin with a bemused grin. A seasoned surfer, he'd made a detour from hiking with friends at Katahdin's Knife's Edge to surf with my daughter in southern Maine.

Only he wasn't talking to her.

He was talking to me as I dragged my daughter's surf board to the razor's edge of the sea.

What was I thinking?

Of course, he was right. This would not end well. What forty-something house frau -- who on a good day has to plan how to descend to a squatting position after she's dropped something she just can't abandon -- would risk life, limb and the potential for lambasting for a moment of glory?

Points to self.

Even though I know this is a sport for young people who have flexibility and supple joints, I couldn't help but delude myself into thinking that all the time I had spent on the beach -- camera trained on my daughter as she learned to surf -- had somehow rubbed off on me.

As I saw her paddle out, turn her board in the direction of the wave, and wait for her moment, I held my breath.

When her chance came, and she started to paddle hard to get herself ahead of the wave, I felt myself dig in.

But it was she who popped up and rode the current in. Not me.

I had been living vicariously.

No matter it was my turn now, and I was going to take it. Somehow I had gotten out there. I had hopped small waves and crashed through large ones. I had tried not to give the ocean too much of me to smash.

When my turn came, I pushed off, paddled as hard as I could until the ocean swished me around in its gaping maw and spat me out.

It wasn't pretty.

But I stood up, tugged at the board and headed back out.

I'd like to tell you this Old Lady conquered that sea. I'd like to tell you I managed not to make a fool of myself. But I know you don't believe in mermaids or fairytales.

I never made it to standing.

A half an hour later I was exhausted.

The next morning my body felt like a sticky, gelatinous substance one has to scrape off their shoe.

But I couldn't quit. She wouldn't let me.

"You can't give up, mom. I'll teach you."

This would not end well. What could a tween child -- who on a good day talks herself In circles as if her internal podcast was caught in a scratch on a vinyl record -- do to alter the time/space continuum. She couldn't return me to an age when I mightn't risk life, limb and the potential for lambasting so I could bask in a moment of glory?

Maybe it was just an exercise in futility. "Find your balance," she hollered as she leaned in and tipped my board sideways.

Stop that!

"Try to stand up."

No!

"I think you're goofy footed. You should switch the leash to your left ankle."

I had no idea what she was saying.

Use English!

"Paddle out now. … Now come back. … Now paddle out again."

You are enjoying this, aren't you?

She smiled broadly.

How could this be any more mortifying you ask?

Is that the ACTUAL surf instructors right next to us watching and laughing?

That's how.

"Just push me out," I pleaded.

"Ok. If you think you're ready," she drawled with disdain.

One heave and a wave had taken me. And while I expected to be rung through the sea's spin cycle, something unexpected happened. The board steadied in the current and gave me time to crawl to my feet, where I crouched partway between down and up.

I'd like to tell you this Old Lady conquered that sea. I'd like to tell you I managed not to make a fool of myself. But I know you don't believe in mermaids or fairytales.

I never made it to standing.

Still, I was laughing. And I was surfing with my daughter, not caring who saw.