Post-Fear

I have always been a fearful person.

As a child, I feared physical danger, real or imagined. On weekend trips to the Santa Monica Pier, I’d refuse to get out of the car in the pier parking lot. Peeking out the backseat window, I’d look down and freeze, transfixed by the swirling mess of ocean and pillars and angry, white spray just visible through the gaps between the pier planks. And those gaps! Vast, human-swallowing abysses (at most an inch or two wide) through which I could fall to my watery grave at any moment! When my dad did manage to coax me down from the backseat and onto those planks, I’d hop with extreme care from one to the next, dramatically re-balancing myself after each to avoid the “perilous” slip.

As I grew older, the fear of falling through impossible cracks was gradually replaced by the terror of being alone. I dreaded invites to slumber parties. When I could convince myself to accept, I went and generally enjoyed myself... until the lights went out and the last teenage girl collapsed into her bowl of kettle corn, leaving me alone with Mulan and Mushu as they attempted to save Imperial China. I’d lay awake all night scanning the ceiling, counting the ticks of the grandfather clock--too terrified to close my eyes. Eventually, I'd get up and tiptoe around the strange and unfamiliar house, doing my best to pass the hours until daybreak.

As an adult, I fear rejection, awkwardness and discomfort. I feel it most when I contemplate ‘putting myself out there’ in some way--inquiring about a job, speaking in front of a group, posting a blog, asking someone out. I blame my Scandinavian genes (Janteloven. Look it up).

Ever since I arrived back in LA, I had been feeling this fear whenever I thought about going surfing by myself. I learned to surf as a teenager but never went often enough get beyond basic competency. And it had been years since then. I feared the judgement of the regulars at the popular surf spots...Would they laugh at my ability? Call me out? Tell me I’m crowding the waves? I went to Malibu Surfrider Beach my first week back just to scope out the scene, assess the quantity and caliber of the locals, and try to judge if I could handle it. Three weeks later, my sister’s longboard still sat unused in the attic. The ocean, so close and accessible, glared at me each day as I drove along Pacific Coast Highway into town.

Last week, I finally resolved to go. I brought the board down from the attic the night before, loaded it into the car, and laid my wetsuit alongside my bed, removing all potential roadblocks or escape hatches. No excuses, Anna. You’re doing this.

When my alarm went off at six the following morning, I blinked awake to total darkness, instantly regretting my decision. I rolled myself out of bed and began inching my sister’s reluctant, 10-year-old wetsuit up my ankles and calves, praying that it would be too small or break. Damn, I thought to myself as I easily zipped up the last inch and closed the velcro strap around my neck. No way out. After a Clif Bar and some coffee, I was on the road.

I dialed my sister from the car’s bluetooth, a thousand nervous questions racing through my mind: Are you sure the board isn’t too old? Do I need to buy wax for it? Do you think I should go further north to a less crowded beach? The phone rang and rang and rang going straight to voicemail. I was in this alone.

As I turned off Sunset onto PCH heading north, “Stay Alive” by Jose Gonzelez came up on my Spotify shuffle. The song was featured in the 2013 film The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, and an image filled my phone screen of Ben Stiller speeding down a winding street on a skateboard, surrounded by majestic, volcanic mountains. I felt something small just below my ribs light up. It grew branches, sending warmth and light out to my extremities. My breathing slowed and I sat back in my seat. Just keep going. You’re right where you need to be.

I surfed for maybe two hours. All the anticipated Laird Hamilton’s, Stacey Peralta’s and Josh Duhamel’s showed up in full force, replete with long sun-streaked locks, chiseled torsos, and the casual confidence of experienced pros. And what happened? Absolutely nothing. I paddled my little heart out for about 40 waves, caught at most 3 of them. I made an absolute fool of myself falling in the shallow reef and--even worse--popping up too soon, which left me standing atop the surfboard on flat water, the wave crashing just out of reach. No one called me out, laughed at me, told me to go home. No one paid me any mind at all. I sat out past the break shivering but smiling to myself. An occasional dolphin fin broke the surface of the blue silk all around me as the sun rose over Los Angeles.

I’m so glad that I am a fearful person by nature. It gives me the opportunity to use fear as a tool for growth and expansion. And the feeling that follows an act of courage? Sheer limitlessness. A total body high. I felt it last Thursday driving back along the coast with sunscreen in my eyes and wind whipping through my saltwater-matted hair. I laughed aloud to myself about nothing, turned the music up and sang at the top of my lungs, called people I haven’t talked to in a while, set hundreds of goals and resolutions. (It should surprise no one that I am an extreme morning person).

The experience was a reminder that I don't need to be halfway across the world to start living. Big changes and dramatic exits can be intoxicating, but life is lived in little acts of courage, tiny steps towards rather than away from what scares us. I'm thrilled to start my travels in January, but there's lots of "self-dares" I can take up in the meantime to make my time here count. And what can I say? I've become a bit of a junkie for that post-fear feeling.