Going over the falls

The first time I went over the falls while surfing was in September 2011. I was one week into an indefinite van trip around the USA, currently parked at the Quiksilver Pro surf competition in Long Beach, NY.

I’d only been surfing for about a year and wasn’t prepared for the thrashing that came.

Our windows are frozen shut; winter has crystallized into a fractal cascade.

I went outside and witnessed a city draped in enchanting morning light. The sun’s fire dissipated through wispy clouds on a crisp -20°C morning, bringing the angelic qualities of this world into full focus; a reminder of grace in these times of uncertainty and upheaval.

It’s the new year.

2026 welcomed me with a frenzy of busyness; life swept me up into a great synergy of things to do, places to be, things to schedule, chores to handle, yada yada yada. This morning, sitting in a cafe on Rue Bernard, is the first true pause I’ve felt in weeks.

I’m reminded of an advertisement that Jack Kornfield saw at a health food store in Santa Cruz in the 1970s. It was a poster of the Hindu guru Swami Satchidananda balanced in tree pose on a surfboard. He was cruising down a large wave with his beard flowing in the wind, wearing nothing but a loincloth, and a beaming smile on his face.

The poster read:

You can’t stop the waves,

but you can learn to surf.

Meditate with Swami Satchidananda.

Simmer a pot of meditation on the stovetop for several hours, and it boils down to this.

Surfing, like life, is a dynamic endeavor. Every day in the ocean is different; no two waves are the same. To know how to surf means you’ve developed an attuned awareness of your surroundings and an ability to respond to the reality of the moment.

How big are the waves? What’s the average time between each wave? How is the wind affecting the sets? Does my board work well for the conditions? Where’s the most efficient spot to paddle out? Where do I need to position myself to catch the next wave?

There are many variables at play. Still, no amount of preparation or calculation can prepare you for the moment when a rogue wave inevitably comes along with a shape, texture, and gravitas that’s beyond what you’re capable of.

“Going over the falls” is surfing lingo for being caught in the most inopportune position: too far behind the wave to drop in and catch it, but not far back enough to paddle over the crest to safety on the other side. Going over the falls means you got stuck in no-man’s-land right in the middle and are en route to getting pummeled into the water by Mother Nature’s thunder. The way out is to remain calm; to preserve oxygen and energy, and let the wave pass.

Flashing back to 2011… it was a cloudy, murky day in the water, and the waves were bigger than I’d ever seen in person. Hindsight is 20/20 — I probably shouldn’t have paddled out. But the waves were beautiful, and a lot of surfers were in the water getting incredible rides. My friend’s stoke, plus a healthy dose of youthful bravado, was enough to fire me up and get me in the water.

An arduous 30-minute paddle ensued just to get to the safe spot past the breaking waves. I was already tired, but I sat out there gently bobbing in the lineup as these behemoth waves rolled under me like blue whales. They always feel bigger in the water than they look on the shore. I had to at least go for one.

I started paddling into a wave and realized immediately that I wasn’t in the right spot. I’d missed the moment where I could safely drop in and rush down the face of the wave. But I also wasn’t far back enough that the wave would just roll under without taking me with it. I made a frantic attempt to stop myself and backpaddle out of it, but I was already caught. The curl pulled me effortlessly over the edge.

Suspended in the air, I felt time slow; each second stretched out as my mind scrambled to make sense of what was happening. Luckily, I had the wherewithal to suck in a deep breath.

I crashed into a terrifying and disorienting churn, not knowing which way was up. Adrenaline-pumping panic set in as my body thrashed in the ocean’s force. It felt like an eternity (couldn’t have been more than 10 actual seconds) before the wave’s force rolled on and I could find the surface. I was rocked.

I gasped a relieving breath and quickly realized that I was seconds away from the wave behind it breaking right on my head. The goal was survival at this point—I needed to get out of the water. I took a quick breath in and dove down as far as I could, but still got utterly tossed around.

When I came up, there was a bit of space between the next set, so I took the opportunity to find my board and use whatever energy I had left to paddle toward the shore. Once I was out of the impact zone, I caught the whitewater of the waves that followed and lumbered back to shore.

I laid there on the cool sand, bewildered by the power of the ocean, and felt immense relief sweep through my body, thanking whatever expression of God I could connect with at the time that I was still alive.

Every experience is a wave.

From the slightest itch on the back of your neck to the most unfathomable grief, everything rises, takes form in the world, and returns to the ocean again. It’s easy to forget when we’re in the throes of a challenging experience.

These early weeks of 2026 have felt like an over-the-falls moment. I didn’t see it coming. I prefer quieter days in early January and a slow crescendo to cruising altitude to start the year. I fought it at the beginning of the year and carried dread on my shoulders.

Things changed when I turned to surrender instead. Then the hectic pace started to take on the flavor of absurdity, with a Trickster quality to it. I felt communion with what Ram Dass referred to as the Cosmic Giggle and saw the humor in my predicament: not as a comedic punchline, but a compassionate, healing acceptance.

That’s where trust comes into play; trust in the wisdom of time. Trust in impermanence; trust that everything is in motion. Trust in my capacity to be with life as it is.

I can’t stop the waves. But I can keep practicing, paddling out, and welcoming the amazing, awe-inspiring absurdity of this life.