Melissa Lutz Blouin

In the summer of 2020, my son Emile paddled me around on his inflatable stand-up paddle board at sunset during our vacation in Oregon. Our feet sank into the cool sand and we walked towards the sun as it threw its orange mantle across the Pacific Ocean. Cold water lapped gently against my toes and I shivered in anticipation as I folded my body onto the board. My daughter-in-law Kelly slapped the other board into the water. I settled myself into the front of Emile’s board and we used our paddles to push off from shore.

A set of shallow reefs at the mouth of Sunset Bay kept the waters calm, and we could see the white foam breaking over them, caught in the brilliance of the sunset. The waves brushed the salt into the air, the pine trees sighed along the shore. A curious sea lion poked its head in and out of the swells and began to follow us as we paddled quietly through the water. Peering into the briny water, I could see straight down to the sand and rocks beneath.

We drew our paddle boards onto the rocks near the bay’s entrance. Nothing existed but the waves, the cliffs, the trees, the ocean. We picked our way carefully across uplifted rocks jutting just above the water, peering into tiny tide pools brimming with sea urchins and starfish. The sun sank towards the horizon, bathing our surroundings in gold. I felt at one with the universe, a moment of light in the dark year that was 2020.

Upon returning to California, I vowed to get an inflatable paddle board. I scoured the internet, compared boards, and found what looked like a good one. I inflated it at the house to make sure it worked. Then early one morning as the sun rose, I drove five minutes down the road to the put-in spot for a canal near our house. I met the cool air with a deep breath, heard the geese honking overhead, put the board in the lapping water, knelt in the middle and pushed off.

My first experience felt like the opposite of that moment of light in Oregon. Instead, as I stood up with wobbly knees, I found myself concerned with falling off of the board.

My muscles tensed as I slowly tried to stand. The vibrations made me nervous. I finally rose, straightened my legs and gingerly slipped the paddle into the water. I froze as the board shook, waiting for the fall.

I took a few deep breaths and interrogated my fear.

I’m wearing a life jacket, I told myself. I have an ankle tie so the board won’t go anywhere. And I’m paddling in a canal with clear, still water.

If I fall, I’ll simply get back on the board.

So what, exactly, am I afraid of?

I began to deliberately relax my tensed-up muscles. I slowed my breathing. The wobbles remained, but began to smooth out. I focused on the rhythmic “splish” of the paddle dipping into the water, my arm muscles moving up and down, the delicate dance of my feet in sync with the board and in turn with the water.

I began to shift my focus to the shore, to a blue heron in the reeds, to geese flying overhead through the blue sky. I drank in the beauty. My mind relaxed and my focus expanded.

And that’s when I realized that fear of “falling” goes further than falling off the paddle board.

“What if I get it wrong? What if I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? What if I AM wrong?” These are questions I ask myself, especially during hard times.

At that moment on the paddle board, I realized that when that happens, when I “fall off the board” in my life — which is inevitable — I brush myself off, stand up, and try again.

This is how we build a life — by continuing to stand tall, falling and getting back up again, not by giving up for fear of falling.

I did not fall off of my paddle board that day. Now that time has passed and I’ve learned more, push myself more, the inevitable happens and sometimes I plunge into the cool, dark water. I also have captured more of those sublime moments of oneness with the universe. That is the reward for trying and falling, again and again, for not giving up when it all goes wrong the first time, the second time, multiple times.

When things get hard, I remind myself of this, of the days that are hard and the days that are sublime. Life brings us both, and we navigate them as best we can, balancing, pushing ourselves until we fall, then getting up once more.