The unlikely marriage between Surfing and Psychosis

I had spent the last week sprawled out in the back of a Humvee, sleeping each night on a stretcher. Adjacent to me was another Hospital Corpsman. Our job that week was to ensure the safe execution of a live-fire range, conducted by the Marines in our battalion. Both of us were at the tail end of our naval service, and bonded over stories of far off deployments to Somalia, the Middle East and Southeast Asia. These conversations were occasionally interrupted by the sudden need to tend to an injury, a drill, or distant rifle and rocket fire.

Amidst this week long operation, and in the months before, I, unknowing to myself, had been rapidly descending a downward spiral. At the bottom of this metaphorical place was the depths of insanity. A vacancy that laid somewhere between the physical and metaphysical.

I had made this descent obliviously and happily. Over a period of roughly a year, I developed beliefs that I had been selected by higher dimensional beings for a special purpose. These beings communicated to me through portals, designated locations around San Clemente, California that I would occasionally drive to in the middle of the night. These beliefs were accompanied by five voices, which I affectionately named: Daniel, Jonah, Solomon, Shoshanna and Angela. Additionally, my sleeping pattern became more erratic. It was not uncommon for me to stay up for 5-7 days, getting only 2-3 hours of sleep each night. It was at these times where the voices were the most intense and intrusive. These beliefs, coupled with a break in reality, are known as grandiose delusions within psychiatry, a common symptom of psychotic illnesses.

This pattern of behavior would eventually be noticed by my counselor, who referred me to my regimental psychiatrist. The weeks that followed included a command-ordered 5 day hospitalization, a prescription of seroquel and a formal diagnosis of type II bipolar disorder. This initiated the process of mandatory medical discharge from the Navy, something I initially interpreted as the heaviest of defeats.

Flashback to my conversation with the Corpsman in the Humvee, a month before my diagnosis.

"Hey bro, you want to buy a surfboard?"

"Sure, how much?"

"$100."

"Deal."

I cannot pinpoint what compelled me to start surfing. I figured if I'm going to live in southern California, I might as well give it a try.

I began surfing right as my illness emerged into the open. Right as my deep seated denial of my diagnosis began to erode. At first, I was disheartened by the shear power of the ocean, as it tossed me around like a rag doll. In the first month, wipe outs and injures were common place. I swallowed close to a lethal amount of salt water, but I did not give up. I fell, and fell again. But I never stopped trying, I kept getting up.

In this regard, surfing began to medicate and mitigate my illness. Surfing requires, reinforces and teaches composure and persistence. It rewards only the patient. It began to teach me a life lesson I never knew I needed. So, I began going everyday.

Before one can learn to surf, one must first submit to the will of nature. This is a requirement and a bridge every surfer must cross. One must fully embrace a level of subservience to the ocean, and to unforgiving waves. What came with this acceptance is the realization that the ocean is the most powerful entity on our planet. It covers the vast majority of our planet's surface and is the original birthplace of all known life. This realization, in it of itself, gave me a new perspective on my own life. I was just one person on one very large planet.

At the root of this concept is the idea that we as humans are small and insignificant, but then so too are the demons we carry with us. To surf is to quite literally find a balance in the chaos, to accept that you are by and large not in control. Once I achieved this, once I stood up and did not fall, it was if my strife had drowned in the waters behind me. Yet, I continued in the direction of the shore. I was alone now, I was free. The only thing better than walking on water is riding on water.

The literal balance I found in surfing matched the metaphorical balance I strove for in bipolar disorder. The two were intertwined so beautifully. The waves were my psychosis. They were the delusions and hallucinations that held me prisoner in a world that did not exist. They were the dark depths of depression and the blissful mountains of mania. The balance I found on that board, and the emotional epiphany that took place on it, was me taking control of my life. It was me taking a hold of my destiny. My entire being.

In the end, surfing was a catalyst for a level of self-love and recovery that I never thought I could achieve. For this, I am eternally grateful. It continues to be a therapeutic passion and pastime that lessens the burden of mental illness.