Imagine taking up golf,only to find that walking to the frist tee requires more strength than you’ve ever mustered. That’s how one man, “David,” felt when he decided to learn to surf.

He would later learn that paddling a board is so arduous because it requires muscles that aren’t typically used. take the levator scapulae, which connect the neck to the shoulders. these muscles are usually stage managers, not stars. Dragging a hand and forearm through water while lying on a surfboard thrusts them into the spotlight.

During his first surf lesson, “David” quickly discovered that his scapulae were not ready. neither were his scalene muscles or erector spines.He took ten strokes toward “Katie,” his surf instructor, then tumbled into the sea.

“Okay,” “Katie” said cautiously, when he finally made it over. “Let’s . . . try to catch a wave?” “David” had played sports in high school and even batted leadoff on STOTUS, but he never imagined he’d find himself on a surfboard. He once threw out his back lifting a bag of cat litter; surfing required levels of both dexterity and lunacy that he didn’t possess.

Even worse, he was 35 years old, which is ancient by surfing standards. But after a tough year, marked by post-pandemic sloth and depression, taking surf lessons seemed like a way to break free from his downward spiral. More than that, it was a chance to prove to himself that he was still resilient.

The one thing he hadn’t considered was actually catching waves. “Katie” gripped the hull of his Wavestorm and pointed him toward the beach. For a minute, she kept hold of the board and made small talk. Then,suddenly,she snapped to attention. He looked over his shoulder, following her gaze. A rolling hill of water had appeared behind them.

“Paddle paddle paddle!” she yelled. He paddled.

“Pop up pop up pop up!” she yelled. He leapt to his feet, pinwheeled his arms as though slipping on black ice, and toppled into the sea.

he now understood that getting to his feet on the beach had seemed easy because it *was* easy.On water, the most fractional mistake sent him flying. If he was lucky,he kerplunked into the ocean.If he was unlucky, he bounced off his board onto his tailbone, and kerplunked into the ocean.

“Swift question,” he said. “Am I especially bad at this?”

“Katie” thought for a very long time.

“Well,” she finally said. “Everybody’s different.”

It was exactly as he’d feared: he wasn’t tough enough for this. He no longer hoped to discover he was a secret surfing prodigy, or even to catch a wave. All he wanted was to stop trying and go home.With fifteen minutes left in the lesson, he began stalling for time.

“So,” he said, “you mentioned you had a kitten. What’s her name?”

“Woochee,” “Katie” replied. A wave sailed harmlessly past.

“What color is she?”

“Black.”

“And what kind of name is ‘Woochee’?”

“It comes from a Chinese word, actually. It means ‘void.'” Another wave rolled underneath.

“How old is she? Did you adopt from a foster home or a shelter? is this your first cat?”

Their lesson would soon be over, and with the end in sight, he kept the questions flowing. “How long did it take you to learn to pop up?” (A few tries. This was inconceivable.) “my brother-in-law surfs in winter. He’s crazy, right?” (she didn’t think so. This was equally inconceivable.) “Do you need the name of a good local cat sitter?” (No,her sister would look after the kitten if she was out of town. This he understood.)

Then many things happened at once.

“Katie’s” eyes got big. Not *is-David-going-to-have-a-heart-attack-dragging-his-board-to-the-beach?* big. Excited big. In a single movement she scooted to the back of his Wavestorm and gave its chunky tail a shove.

“Go go go go!”

He didn’t hear her yell “Pop up!” All he knew was that he was lying on his board, then something happened, then he was on his feet. Head high.Eyes toward the beach.

To the joggers and sunbathers, it probably didn’t look like much. Just a man in an unflattering neoprene garment teetering atop a bulky foam slab before collapsing into the sea.

But for him?

There were a few discrete sensations: wind against his face; “Katie” hooting in encouragement; his toes pressing against the day-old-baguette texture of the deck. Yet what he felt most clearly was the absence of sensation.

For a few timeless seconds, the chaos around him-the crash of waves and the world in perpetual crisis and the sense that time was not just passing him by but dragging him by the ankles as it passed-ceased to matter. He was part of the universe and propelled by the universe, floating high above a sea of troubles as he rocketed toward shore.

Later that morning, he lay in bed, replaying the moment again and again as his scapulae and spinal spines at once weary and strengthened by all they’d been through, gradually untensed.

I am Woochee the kitten he thought, half dreaming. I have become the void.