Cornwall Surfing
"Surf school owner Tamsyn has taught thousands to ride waves. When stressed London exec James books a week of lessons, she teaches him to ride more than surf."
Fistral Beach at dawn was my church—Atlantic swells rolling in like prayers, the kind of cold that woke you up properly, salt air that stripped away everything unnecessary. I'd been surfing since I was eight, teaching since twenty, and at forty-five, I knew these waves better than I knew myself.
"I'm probably going to be terrible at this."
The man in my beginner session stood apart from the others—older, clearly successful, equally clearly terrified. His wetsuit was brand new; his posture screamed boardroom.
"Everyone's terrible at first. That's what terrible's for."
"I don't do terrible. I do excellent or I don't do."
"Then you're going to learn something new this week." I handed him a foam board. "Terrible is required."
James was terrible. Spectacularly, consistently terrible. He fell off his board approximately forty times in the first session. He swallowed seawater. He got tangled in his leash. He emerged from day one looking like a drowned accountant.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.
"You think there's hope?"
"I think the ocean doesn't care about your résumé. That's either terrifying or liberating."
"Currently terrifying."
"Give it time."
Day two was slightly less terrible. Day three, he managed to stand for three seconds before collapsing. By day four, something shifted—his body started trusting the wave, started letting the ocean do what the ocean did instead of fighting it.
"You're getting it," I said.
"Am I? It still feels like controlled drowning."
"That's what surfing is. Controlled drowning until suddenly it isn't." I paddled beside him. "Why are you really here, James? Nobody books a week of surf lessons to add a skill."
"My therapist. Said I needed to find something I couldn't control." He was floating, watching the horizon. "Turns out the Atlantic qualifies."
"What are you controlling in London?"
"Everything. A hedge fund that makes money whether I'm there or not. A marriage that ended because I couldn't stop working. A heart that's apparently stressed enough to require intervention."
"And the surfing helps?"
"The surfing is impossible. Which means every moment I'm doing it, I'm not thinking about any of that." He turned to face me. "You've been doing this for twenty-five years. How do you stand the uncertainty?"
"It's not uncertainty—it's presence. The wave comes. You respond. There's no past or future, just now." I paddled toward the break. "Come on. Let's catch one together."
Day five, he rode a wave for fifteen seconds—long enough to feel what surfing actually was instead of just surviving it. When he emerged from the water, his face held something I recognized: the particular joy of people who'd found the ocean.
"That was—" He couldn't find words.
"I know."
"Is that what it always feels like?"
"It gets better. Once you stop being terrible."
We ended up at my beach shack that evening, sharing fish and chips while the sunset painted everything gold. James had stopped looking like a London executive; he'd started looking like someone remembering what it was to be alive.
"I don't want to go back," he said.
"To London?"
"To who I was in London." He set down his food. "Tamsyn. I've learned more this week than in years of therapy. Not about surfing—about letting go."
"Surfing teaches that."
"You teach that. The surfing is just the method." He moved closer. "Can I stay longer? Not as a student—I know the lessons end tomorrow. Just... stay."
I kissed him with salt still on both our lips, tasting the ocean we'd shared all week. His body was softer than the surfers I usually knew, but his enthusiasm was genuine.
"My cottage is up the cliff," I said.
"Show me."
The cottage was surfer minimalist—boards everywhere, wet gear drying, the evidence of a life lived in and around water. James looked at it like he'd found something he didn't know he was searching for.
"This is freedom."
"This is my life."
"Same thing."
We made love while the waves continued outside, our bodies finding rhythms that the week had prepared us for. He touched me with convert's passion—someone who'd just discovered a new religion and wanted to worship properly.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for balance, not beauty."
"Balance is beautiful." He moved inside me with growing confidence. "The most beautiful thing I've seen all week."
We came together while the Atlantic played its endless song, both of us letting go in ways that had nothing to do with control. When I cried out, it was with the same voice I used to celebrate a good ride—pure, joyful, absolutely present.
"Stay," I said.
"How long?"
"Until you're ready to go back. Or until you realize you're not going back."
He realized. Sold his stake in the fund, rented a place in Newquay, started learning to surf properly instead of just survive. The City colleagues think he's had a breakdown; I think he's had a breakthrough.
We're together now—two surfers, one experienced, one still learning. The waves keep coming; we keep riding them. That's what surfing teaches: you can't control the ocean, but you can learn to move with it.
James moved with me. And in the moving, found something his controlled life had never offered—joy that came from letting go, love that came from presence, a future that looked like endless Atlantic swells rolling toward a shore that felt like home.