Elder Travel Category—Gold Winner: My Favorite Injury
by U. Joy WoodersonForget sky-diving. Forget hiking the Himalayas. This senior woman had one adventure goal in mind—riding the waves of my beloved Indian Ocean once again.
On a blustery October day in Missouri, I carefully folded my swimsuit into the suitcase in anticipation of my return to my homeland, South Africa, and the beaches of my birth city, Durban. My introduction to the ocean had come early—at the age of six months—and for the following thirty years I enjoyed its many moods, developing a love and respect for its power and majesty that still lives.
The odds of achieving my heart’s desire were not good when I arrived in Durban. I knew November weather could be erratic and that spring tides often swept over the beachfront. Over the weekend, southwesterly winds of nearly 50 mph had whipped the ocean into churning, white-capped swells up to 26 feet high. From the sheltered patio of my cousin’s home, I watched ten ships rise and fall on the shimmering horizon. They had no hope of entering the narrow gateway into Durban’s harbor until the sea calmed and huge breakers no longer battered the long pier. The ships’ bows all pointed in the same direction, straining at their anchors.
My spirits sank even lower as I read the newspaper over breakfast. Crashing waves prompted a ban on swimming at the beaches along the coast. A Filipino sailor’s hand had been crushed in a tanker’s mess room door as the ship rolled in the heaving sea. Given the volume of shipping calling at Durban, this would not normally merit the front page. But the swells set a twenty-five year record, calling for unusual skill on the part of the rescuers as they negotiated the rigid inflatable craft alongside the tanker and transferred the seaman.
The newspaper did offer a tiny ray of hope, however—the forecaster predicted the wind would moderate during the day, and the ban on swimming might be lifted. I had a fixed purpose—and only one week to fulfill it. It never entered my mind that twenty-one years had passed since I last bounced in the waves of the Indian Ocean, or that I was no longer forty-five.
Friday, “do or die” day, rolled around. I was down to my last few hours in Durban. Peering through the trees from the patio I still saw white caps, with a wide band of churning surf edging the shoreline. But the wind had subsided a little and I had a mission.
“Malcolm, where’s your boogie board?” I called to my cousin.
“It’s already in the car,” he responded.
Soon we arrived at Umhlanga Rocks Beach, one of Durban’s best, and I found myself on the cement path that snaked its way along the edge of the sand. I couldn’t talk Malcolm, or his wife Jenny, into sharing my adventure. They preferred to settle themselves at the tea room overlooking the surf.
Grabbing the boogie board, I set off toward the sea, evidencing a lot more confidence than I felt. Those waves were huge—and still angry. Instead of narrow bands of white curling over the sea, I saw nothing but churning foam, like lace edging blue fabric. The water was also considerably colder than I liked. But, I plunged in. To my dismay, a strong backwash tugged at my legs while a side wash eroded the sand under my bare feet. Swimming in this would be heavy going.
Oblivious to the stares from the patrons at the tea room, I positioned the boogie board under my hips, gripped the end with my outstretched arms, and calculated the best oncoming wave. With a leap at precisely the right moment, I caught the wave and rode in until my body scraped the sand. What a thrill. This is what I came to Durban for—one more swim in the Indian Ocean. Of course, visiting my favorite relatives featured somewhere in my list of priorities—I think.
I headed back out again as exhilaration coursed through me. I was still pretty good at this—even at age sixty-six. This time I miscalculated and went under, arms and legs flailing, gulping salt water and scraping myself on the sand. Fortunately, the board’s strap stayed attached to my wrist.
For thirty minutes I allowed myself to be pummeled by the sea, relishing every moment, every battering of the waves, grinning inanely at nothing except the sheer enjoyment of the experience. Then, although adrenaline still pumped, my body weakened, exhausted by having to use unaccustomed muscles in unaccustomed ways. One more wave, I thought, and then I’ll head in.
This one was a doozy. I gripped the board with all my strength and threw myself in front of the churning surge, whose malevolent intent was to drown me. Scraping sand, I wearily stood, picked up the board, and staggered up the beach to the restaurant.
“Where are you from?” a voice called as I reached the tea room. Apparently, I had provided entertainment for the people enjoying their late afternoon beverages. One middle-aged woman could not restrain her curiosity.
“I live in America,” I replied, “but I grew up here in Durban.”
“That explains how you know how to do that,” she said, pointing to the board.
Sipping a cup of hot tea, I noticed my hands were stiff and sore, especially in the area of my right thumb. Since I’m of an age when aches, pains, and discomforts pop up at frequent intervals, I ignored it. Besides, my pride wouldn’t let me admit that bouncing like a teenager in the churning breakers might not have been the wisest way to spend my time.
Over the next few days of hauling luggage on the trip home, I came to the realization that I had, in fact, sprained my thumb during my adventure in the sea.
Three months later, as I gripped the bar bell during my water aerobics class, I still felt a twinge in my right thumb. But instead of wincing, I smiled inwardly. My mind flashed back to that magical day when I rode the waves of the Indian Ocean. If I stay in shape, I might even be able to do that again. Do seventy-year-olds surf?
U. Joy Wooderson is a writer who lives in O’Fallon, Missouri.
