Joy and Wipeouts: A Grieving Mother Discovers Healing on an 8-Foot Surfboard

I fastened my seatbelt, clutched the armrests, and let the tears stream down as the plane ascended, taking me far from my only child. The voice in my head scolded me—What have you done? But it was too late to change course. My daughter was at sleepaway camp in Upstate New York, while I embarked on a week-long solo adventure at a surf camp in Costa Rica, eager to find myself again.

Growing up in Rio de Janeiro, I used to carve through the waves at Barra da Tijuca and Prainha on my vibrant yellow-and-orange Morey Boogie Mach 7, my belly pressed against its textured surface as I rode the wave’s face. It wasn’t until the summer of 2017, in Maui, that I stood on a surfboard for the first time. As I glided toward the shore in Kihei, riding gentle baby waves, I felt empowered, in control, believing I could achieve anything I set my mind to.

Then, in the fall, my husband succumbed to pancreatic cancer, just 30 days after his diagnosis. Becoming a widow drained my reservoir of fearlessness and determination. Grief acted like a lid, suffocating the carefree side of me—the one who sings karaoke without a care for being out of tune, the one who dances as if no one is watching, despite the audience. Suddenly, surfing, a source of joy, felt impossible in a life now burdened with the heavy responsibilities of single-handedly raising a child and managing a household.

As the years rolled on, I began to envision a getaway that was solely mine. I yearned to heed the ocean’s call, hoping to reshape my future by reconnecting with a part of my past.

Turning 50 in July provided the perfect reason for an adventure. As a treat for myself, I booked a round-trip flight to Liberia Guanacaste Airport and secured my place in the beginner’s course at Witch’s Rock Surf Camp in Tamarindo, a delightful and lively beach town made famous by Endless Summer II. Now, three weeks after my birthday celebration and five days after dropping Flora off at camp, I was finally embarking on my journey.

As the Pacific Ocean unfolded before me from my window seat, its blue hue mirroring a cloudless sky, excitement and self-doubt engaged in a tug-of-war within my chest. I inhaled deeply and recited an affirmation I’ve embraced most mornings since losing my husband, but now I felt the strength to truly live by it: I am allowed to prioritize myself.

The journey from the airport to the camp took about an hour; transportation is included for guests staying at least a week. I shared the van with another guest, an experienced surfer named John, who mentioned he was enrolled in the advanced program. His trip would involve exploring various surf breaks around Tamarindo, including the renowned Witch’s Rock, where powerful A-frame waves offer seasoned surfers the perfect blend of challenge and excitement. (The camp also provides options for intermediate surfers.)

I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of avoiding the embarrassment of being a beginner surfer in front of an attractive guy.

We navigated a bumpy road that wound through lush fields dotted with small towns, tiny farms, and the occasional groups of chickens and cows. Witch’s Rock Surf Camp is housed in a long two-story building situated between the main street in Tamarindo and the beach. The rooms are practical; mine, located on the top floor, featured a minifridge, a queen-size bed pushed against the wall, and a balcony. From there, I could see the beach, the camp’s small pool, and a garden where iguanas as green as grass basked in the sun.

John and I reconnected later in the afternoon during an orientation session held in the same surf shop where we had checked in. My stomach rumbled as a young man presented a whiteboard outlining the start time and meeting point for the next day’s lessons; I hadn’t eaten since breakfast back in Manhattan.

Not wanting to dine alone, I turned to John as we stepped outside and asked, “Would you like to grab a bite together?”

As we made our way to the heart of town, we paused at a beachfront bar, ordered a two-for-one happy hour deal, and watched the sun dip below the Pacific, painting the sky in vibrant shades of orange.

Surfing lessons at Tamarindo Beach are scheduled according to the tides. When offshore winds blow during mid to high tide, the waves become cleaner and more reliable, making it easier for beginners to catch and ride them. My first lesson was planned for 11 the next morning. I woke up early, stepped onto the balcony, and watched as the rising sun cast a silvery glow over the ocean, my excitement buzzing with the anticipation of creating new memories to share with my daughter upon our reunion.

I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. Who would be surfing alongside me? What if I discovered I couldn't surf at all? Since my husband's passing, I had wrestled with the fear of failure, a pressure I placed on myself that sometimes robbed me of sleep, as I imagined everyone watching, waiting for me to stumble, eager to confirm the fragility that I know doesn't define me.

August marks the rainy season in Tamarindo, which brings smaller crowds both in and out of the water and excellent surf conditions after afternoon showers. We were a group of about a dozen beginners, primarily parents and their teenage children. We paired up, each couple assigned a dedicated instructor. I shared Mateo with a friendly divorced woman in her 50s who was traveling with her 15-year-old son.

As we strolled barefoot toward the surfboard storage across the street from camp, clad in our bikinis and rash guards, she inquired, "Is this your first time too?"

"Oh, no, I’ve been bodyboarding for years," I replied, my voice projecting more confidence and experience than I truly possessed.

We spotted Mateo standing with the surfboards he had chosen for us—eight feet long and crafted from foam for added buoyancy. I balanced the board on my head, fins facing up and tail forward, feeling as cool as the longboard surfers I had admired (and envied) in Brazil and Hawai‘i. We made our way to the beach, where we settled on the sand for our crucial first lesson: how to stand on a surfboard.

Pop-ups, the dynamic motion that transitions surfers from lying down to standing, rely heavily on technique. The positioning of your hands (near your ribcage) is just as crucial as how much you arch your back (quite a bit) and the speed with which you push yourself up and place both feet on the board. I observed Mateo carefully as he demonstrated the move, then practiced it myself, trying to follow his adjustments, like "bend your knees more" and "keep your eyes forward." To maintain balance, he instructed, "Always look ahead."

As I paddled in, the practice session replayed in my mind, but what seemed effortless on land turned out to be quite difficult in the water. The board teetered beneath my feet, surfers competed for the same wave, and swimmers ducked and dove as I rode toward them, still unsure how to maneuver the board to avoid collisions.

The most frequent scene on that first day was me crashing face-first into the water the moment I stood up, or being tossed off my board by a wave that I had caught too late, its crest crashing down on me and the white foam swirling around me. Frustrated, I asked Mateo, "What am I doing wrong?" His response was simple: "Surfing is a feeling. You need to step outside your own head."

It was an experience unlike any other I had encountered, grounded in the reverence and respect demanded by the ocean. It requires patience, a trait I struggle with, so each wave I attempted to catch tested me to my limits.

I tend to overthink things, but I’m not one to shy away from new experiences. I recalled taking Flora to São Miguel in the Azores, where we hiked along breathtaking, isolated trails leading to mountaintop lakes. I remembered enduring a seven-hour drive through rain, sleet, and snow one winter just to reach Zion National Park in Utah, a pandemic getaway I had planned exclusively for the two of us.

It struck me that if I can welcome risk and adventure for my daughter and with her, then I certainly have what it takes to embrace it for myself as well.

Isn’t that the reason I found myself in Costa Rica?

Time and distance worked together to anchor me in the moment. By the third day at camp, I felt a surge of confidence, largely because I stopped fixating on how well I was doing. It also helped that one of the instructors demonstrated the turtle roll in the camp’s pool, a technique that allows longboard surfers to navigate past the break by flipping themselves and their boards upside down before the white water takes hold. This was part of our beginner technique sessions. Another session focused on stability had us all sweating profusely as we struggled to stand on wooden balance boards.

In the water, Mateo encouraged me with a chant of, "Smooth, smooth," each time I successfully stood up on the board, my pop-ups becoming cleaner and more frequent as I worried less and practiced more. My surf partner cheered me on, her enthusiastic “yeews” echoing as I paddled toward the shore. I must have been grinning even as I fell off the board, given the amount of salt water I swallowed along the way.

On our final evening, instructors and students gathered at the camp's restaurant for the awards ceremony. A mother of two young girls received the award for the best wave, while a balding man in his late fifties took home the prize for the best wipeout.

We sat next to each other, mostly in silence, as we watched a video montage of our experiences in the ocean. I was captivated by all I had achieved—the falls, the wipeouts, the moments spent churning underwater, and of course, the waves I managed to ride. I glanced at the other beginners around me, people I might never have met otherwise. I thought about John, who had departed a day earlier, and wondered if our paths would cross again.

The following day, while on the plane, I flipped through the photos on my phone and realized I didn’t have a single picture of myself surfing. It didn’t bother me at all. I came to Witch’s Rock to learn through trial, error, and endless practice, without pressure or embarrassment—and that’s precisely what I did.