The princess of tides in Costa Rica

Poppin' up is hard to do
Our instructors have us lying stomach-down on the sand, practicing our pop-ups. This is surfing terminology for the single, fluid motion in which you push your feet up under your body and jump to a standing position, your feet spread apart in a relaxed stance not unlike a yoga pose. Except that most of us don't practice downward dogs on a moving wave.

We start out on the white water, which is actually the name for the gentler waves close to shore. Christy and Jennifer take turns guiding each of us on our boards. When it's Lainey's turn, Christy stands behind her, the board pointed toward shore.

"When I tell you to pop up, you pop up," Christy says. "When I tell you to paddle faster, then paddle faster."

Lainey hears the wave coming and settles herself on the board.

"OK, go!" Christy yells. "Paddle, paddle, paddle. Pop up!"

I watch as Lainey unfurls into a surfer, her posture erect as she sails into shore, exactly as I predicted.

What I didn't predict is that I'd forget about stingrays and, instead, become addicted to taking on the waves. By our second lesson, I muddle a pop-up and land on my knees. I feel transported by the way the water carries me to shore. When I wipe out, all I can think is: Let's do this again, and again, and again.

The days click by, a continuous loop of breakfast surf lessons and afternoon surf sessions, punctuated by yoga classes and horseback rides along the beach. And if you're wondering who the alpha female really is at surf camp, it's the ocean: By the end of day one, we've temporarily lost Nicole to a back injury. By the end of the week, we're all comparing bruises, scratches, and rashes. I consider the gash on my inner thigh a badge of honor, and we're all sore from our hours and hours in the water. I also realize that I haven't picked up my book in days. In fact, most of my usual habits—the daily to-do list, the cell phone calls and text messages—have vanished. I'm more interested in hearing how Lainey was given props by a blond and muscular twentysomething surfer dude.

During one of our early-morning surf sessions, she was just about to drop in on a wave when she looked up to see that he had snaked, or grabbed her wave. They both wiped out, and as they surfaced, he shouted, "Dude! Sorry to take your wave. That was totally your wave!" This story is later recounted at brunch, and as I look up and down the table, I see a group of wet, happy women. I can't really tell you about their politics, religious beliefs, or love lives, but I feel like I know them and count them as friends. If you're looking for a recipe for instant girlfriends, surf camp is the answer. After all, you just need to add water.

The oracle speaks again
On our last day, Christy asks if I want to try to reach the larger waves farther offshore. I've been so busy just trying to perform a pop-up that I'm actually a little envious of all the paddling the other women have done in their attempts to get to that placid zone, the one where you sit and just wait for waves. But each time I paddle out, I'm pummeled by a set of high waves that push me back. This time, I want to avoid hitting that impact zone. Christy calls it "getting Maytagged," because you swirl around like clothes in a washing machine.

Before I know it, I make the mistake of looking away one second too long and—bam!—I'm lifted up and then submerged under the water. When I surface, Christy gives me a rueful smile.

"The ocean won that one," she says.

I'm the winner, I want to tell her. Even the Oracle thinks so. The next time I see him, he's sitting at a bar, in the same zone of heavy-lidded calm. I march over and present myself.

"So do I look stressed out now?" I ask.

He recognizes me and laughs. "No, you don't," he says, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek.

Lanpher is the author of the memoir, "Leap Days: Chronicles of a Midlife Move".

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