How Surfing Indonesia’s Waves Finally Cured My Lifelong Ocean Phobia

For years, the ocean felt like a monster to me. Its immense power, the hidden depths, the creatures lurking in the swells—it all triggered a deep, primal fear. Growing up in the 1980s, watching Jaws didn’t help. I was one of those kids who never forgot that first terrifying glimpse of the shark. Even as an adult, I’d stay on the shore while friends splashed around like carefree otters. My fear wasn’t just in my head; I’m naturally negatively buoyant, meaning treading water is a frantic, exhausting struggle. The only way I could stay afloat was to swim nonstop until my limbs gave out. So I avoided the sea entirely, watching its mysteries from a safe distance.

But I wanted to change. I wanted to see the coral reefs, the marine life—everything that felt more fascinating than outer space. And I wanted to surf. The idea of gliding on a wave looked beautiful and liberating, but I had to conquer my unease first. That fear went deeper than the ocean; it mirrored a tendency to procrastinate in other parts of my life, from avoiding paperwork to staring at a blank page until I found a reason to vacuum. Philosopher George Addair once said that everything you want lies on the other side of fear. So I started asking myself: What’s the worst that can really happen? I began snorkeling at 40, sticking close to a friend like a whale calf. I tried it in the Philippines, Antigua, Kenya, the Maldives—even a giant manta ray glided past me. But waves still terrified me. Even a six-footer in Santa Monica sent me clawing at my friend’s shoulders. ||: Then came the chance to surf Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands. The Indian Ocean here produces consistent waves that draw surfers from around the world. I signed up for a lesson at Aloita Resort, a family-run spot that welcomes beginners. My instructor, Victoria Lvova, was calm and reassuring. She taught me where to wait for the wave’s shoulder. But I drifted too far left, and a wall of water—a Hokusai claw, really—rolled toward me. It knocked me under, ripped the board from my hands, and flipped me upside down. When I surfaced, Victoria was there saying, “It’s ok.” I had taken my first wipeout, my biggest fear, and I was fine. I managed to stand up once, took another wipeout without drama, and realized the real challenge wasn’t sharks or drowning—it was the sheer exhaustion of paddling. My shoulders ached for days. But the worst that happened? An undignified photo of me riding the board on my hands and knees in an uncool life vest. I felt like Superwoman. That surf session broke something in me—a fear barrier I’d carried for decades. I’ve since brought that confidence back to my desk, tackling the tsunami of tasks and writing with a new ease. The lessons from the Mentawai surf will stay with me forever.