I Spent Decades Avoiding the Ocean—Surfing in Indonesia Helped Me Conquer My Fear.

From an early age, the ocean held an overwhelming, almost primal terror for me—a formidable entity whose sheer power, unfathomable depth, and the unseen creatures lurking within its gargantuan swells rendered it a veritable monster in my mind. This visceral dread was not merely a personal quirk but seemed to be a shared human experience, vividly captured by Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai in his iconic print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa. In this masterpiece, the sea is depicted not as a serene expanse but as a cluster of colossal, claw-like waves, poised to grasp the air with merciless intent, a potent symbol of nature’s formidable and indifferent power. Adding to this inherent fear was the indelible mark left by Steven Spielberg’s 1975 classic, Jaws. For me, and countless other children of the 1980s, the film transformed the abstract fear of the deep into a tangible, toothy nightmare, shaking us to our core and permanently associating the ocean with lurking danger. This cinematic trauma, combined with the artistic portrayal of the sea’s might, cemented my aquaphobia deeply within my psyche.

This profound fear meant that for the entirety of my youth and well into early adulthood, the ocean remained an alien, forbidden territory. It wasn’t until the summer after I graduated from university, a milestone typically associated with new freedoms and adventures, that I finally took my very first dip in the sea. The setting was the pristine east coast of Malaysia, a place renowned for its warm, clear waters and vibrant marine life. Standing waist-deep in the gentle lapping waves, an unexpected jolt of panic surged through me when a friend, emerging from beneath the surface, casually informed me that fish were brushing past my legs. What was for her an innocuous detail was for me a confirmation of my worst fears—unseen life, untamed and unpredictable, sharing my space. My aquaphobia, however, wasn’t solely a psychological aversion to the unknown; it was rooted in a hard physical reality: I am negatively buoyant. This physiological characteristic means that unlike many who float with relative ease, treading water for me is nothing short of a frantic, exhausting thrashing of sinking limbs. The only way I can stay afloat is to swim non-stop, an endeavor that quickly leads to complete exhaustion. This physical struggle, combined with my mental dread, provided ample justification for my avoidance of the sea in my younger days, leaving me to watch from the perceived safety of a boat or the shore as my friends cavorted like carefree otters, effortlessly embracing the aquatic world.

Yet, despite my deep-seated fear and physical limitations, an undeniable yearning persisted. I desperately wanted to enjoy the sea as much as my friends did, to shed the shackles of my apprehension and experience the mysterious marine life that, to me, seemed even more fascinating and otherworldly than outer space itself. And then there was surfing. The very concept of gliding on the crest of a wave—a dance with nature’s immense power—looked beautiful, exhilarating, and utterly liberating. It represented the pinnacle of conquering my unease in water, a true triumph over fear. This aversion, however, was more than just a specific phobia; it reflected a broader psychological issue that had permeated various aspects of my life: a deep-seated, fear-based procrastination that had frequently slowed my progress. This pattern manifested in everyday tasks, such as shirking bureaucratic responsibilities, often preferring to incur late fees rather than face the perceived complexity of filling out intricate forms. Even in my professional life as a writer, the sight of a blank page on my computer screen could trigger an immediate, almost compulsive urge to find solace in mundane tasks, like reaching for the vacuum cleaner, anything to delay the intimidating act of creation.

The renowned philosopher and author George Addair famously encapsulated this universal struggle, stating that "everything you’ve ever wanted is sitting on the other side of fear." His words resonated deeply, articulating a truth I had long felt but struggled to embrace. For years, "What’s the worst that can happen?" had been a rhetorical question, a dismissive retort to any suggestion of facing my fears. However, actually forcing myself to answer it, to rationally analyze the potential risks of being in the ocean, initiated a profound shift in perspective. Why had I spent two decades missing out on the breathtaking beauty of coral reefs, the vibrant spectacle of marine ecosystems, when a simple solution like wearing a life jacket could mitigate the perceived danger? The realization was stark: the regret of missing out far outweighed the actual physical risks, especially with safety precautions. Eventually, my burgeoning curiosity trumped my ingrained anxiety, initiating a slow but steady journey towards immersion.

My first full immersions in the sea began at the relatively late age of 40. This was a deliberate act of defiance against my long-held phobia, a conscious decision to swallow my fear and step into the unknown. My initial foray into snorkeling took place in the crystal-clear waters of Palawan in the Philippines, a destination celebrated globally for its unparalleled marine biodiversity and stunning limestone karsts. I clung to my friend’s side like a whale calf to its mother, a lifeline in an alien world. The experience was nothing short of amazing—a kaleidoscope of colorful fish, intricate coral formations, and an almost meditative silence broken only by the sound of my own breathing. Emboldened by this success, I sought similar experiences, snorkeling in Antigua, known for its pristine reefs and shipwrecks, off the coast of Kenya, where vibrant ecosystems thrive near ancient coastal towns, and finally, in the Maldives, an archipelago synonymous with luxury and incredible underwater encounters. It was in the Maldives that I had a truly magical moment: a giant manta ray, a creature of majestic grace, glided effortlessly past me, its sheer size and gentle presence momentarily erasing all vestiges of fear. These experiences were transformative, but they all shared a common characteristic: calm, placid waters. Waves, even small ones, still held a terrifying sway over me. I vividly recall an incident in Santa Monica, California, where a seemingly innocuous six-foot wave (a mere ripple by professional surfing standards) sent me into a full-blown panic, causing me to claw onto my friend’s shoulders, almost inadvertently drowning her in my desperate attempt to rise above the churning water.

Despite these lingering anxieties, the dream of surfing never truly faded. The prospect of wipeouts—the violent tumble, the disorientation, the struggle to regain the surface—terrified me to my core. Yet, the regret of never trying, of letting fear dictate such a profound experience, was an even more daunting prospect. So, when an opportunity arose during a work assignment in Indonesia’s remote Mentawai archipelago, I seized it. This chain of islands, situated off the western coast of Sumatra in the Indian Ocean, is a mecca for surfers, renowned globally for its consistent, powerful waves. Here, the Indian Ocean current flows uninterrupted, creating perfectly shaped swells that roll in with remarkable regularity, a testament to the region’s unique bathymetry and exposure to distant storm systems. For decades, the Mentawais were the exclusive domain of hardcore board junkies, those willing to endure arduous journeys for the ultimate wave. However, the landscape has evolved, and now, family-run establishments like Aloita Resort cater to a broader crowd, including beginners and "surf virgins" like myself.

I couldn’t have picked a more beautiful or supportive spot for my inaugural lesson. The setting was idyllic: warm, turquoise sea stretching to the horizon, a pristine white-sand beach backed by a lush forest of swaying coconut palms, and, adding to the professional veneer, a dedicated photographer, Grant Davis, on hand to capture every tentative move. My Spanish instructor, Victoria Lvova, proved to be the perfect guide. Her demeanor was a reassuring blend of fun and calm, precisely what an anxious beginner needed. She patiently explained the mechanics, where to position myself, and precisely when to wait for the low-amplitude shoulder of the wave to arrive, demystifying the intimidating process of wave-catching.

At one point, my concentration wavered, and I drifted too far left, a rookie mistake. My heart pounded as I watched in horror—a "Hokusai wall of water," a wave that to my terrified eyes seemed immense, though by professional standards it was likely a modest ripple, rolled inexorably towards me. The impact was immediate and disorienting. It pushed me downwards and sideways with surprising force, snatching the board from my hands and flipping it upside down. For a few agonizing seconds, I was submerged, tossed by the water’s immense power, experiencing the very chaos I had feared for so long. When I finally broke the surface, gasping for air, Victoria was immediately by my side, her calm voice cutting through my panic: "It’s okay," she reassured me, her presence a steady anchor. She swiftly helped me reposition the board, ready for the next attempt. I had taken my first wipeout—the very scenario that had been my biggest concern—and emerged completely unscathed. The world hadn’t ended; the ocean hadn’t swallowed me whole. A few more waves came along, and though I only managed to stand up once (a fleeting, exhilarating moment of balance and triumph), I took a second wipeout without any drama or lingering fear. The biggest challenge, as is so often the case in life, turned out to be something I hadn’t anticipated at all: the sheer, brutal exhaustion of paddling. Forget sharks or drowning; if anything was going to defeat me, it was the intense, burning ache in my shoulders, a testament to the immense physical demands of the sport.

So, after decades of overwhelming fear, what was the worst that did happen? Well, the photographic evidence of my first surf session includes an undignified image of me riding my board on my hands and knees, sporting an uncool, yet indispensable, life vest. Not exactly a strong look for a seasoned adventurer, but in that moment, despite the awkward posture and the safety gear, I felt like Superwoman. I would have given myself a hearty pat on the back if my shoulders weren’t screaming in protest. This surf experience felt like a massive "cherry pop," a profound baptism into a new and less fearful realm. It was a tangible demonstration that confronting deeply ingrained fears, even those that seem insurmountable, can lead to unexpected joy and liberation.

The lessons learned amidst the Mentawai swells extended far beyond the water’s edge. I’ve since found myself transferring that newfound confidence and resilience to the administrative and writing parts of my life. The "tsunami" of bureaucratic tasks that once paralyzed me now seems less daunting; the blank page, while still a challenge, no longer triggers an immediate flight response. I’m tackling complex forms with a more rational approach, and knuckling down to write articles with a renewed sense of purpose and diminished procrastination. I may be a million miles away from the warm, turquoise waters of the Indonesian surf, but the profound lessons of courage, perseverance, and the liberating power of confronting fear will stay with me forever, guiding me through both the metaphorical and literal waves of life.

This article was originally published on Condé Nast Traveller UK.