Click on a profile title below to read some inspirational
stories about Las Olas alumnae.
Teaching novices to surf must be both mentally
and physically exhausting, especially with the
added challenge of keeping a clumsy beginner with
no natural balance and no athletic skills from
constantly falling off her surfboard. Fortunately
Erin, my instructor, was used to klutzes like me. “Surfing is the
hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she told
me in her quietly encouraging voice, patiently showing
me how to slide my back foot up and brace my foot
against the board’s sticky bumps for the
twentieth time.
By the end of our first afternoon, the inside
of my biceps were scraped raw from rubbing against
the side of my board as I paddled into the waves
again and again and again—but my bloody wounds
felt like badges of honor. And with fresh aloe
gel from the garden smoothed on my arms, I was
ready to hit the surf again the next morning.
Las Olas is about more than just surfing. We started
our days with an hour of yoga—perfect for
limbering up the body for a day on the water. After
a substantial breakfast of scrambled eggs, grilled
potatoes, pancakes, fresh tropical fruits, granola,
yogurt—hey,
surfers need a lot of fuel!—we’d head
out for open water. Apres-surf, I found myself
attempting to salsa (oh, the horror!), I got a
great massage, and I learned how to make a killer
margarita and negotiate the best price on beaded
bracelets from a beach vendor. I even came home
with a temporary tattoo on my thigh—a souvenir
of a morning spent paddling until my muscles were
so spent I could barely lift my arms. My body was
exhausted, but I was exhilarated. I can do
this!
One of the perks of surf camp is that once
I sent in my registration, Manifesta—the
Carmel-by-the-Sea company that runs Las Olas as
well as women’s
golf and art safaris in northern California—made
all of the arrangements for my food, lodging, and
ground transportation, and they made outstanding
choices on my behalf. My round, open-air room was
three stories above the ocean, with a palapa-style
thatched roof that helped keep out the mosquitoes
that thrive in the warm, tropical climate. Lavender
and orange flowers cascaded down the leaf-covered
mountainside onto the enormous terrace outside
my room, and there was a private plunge pool only
a few feet away. I’m a habitually early riser,
but instead of getting up at daybreak to start
my workday, I’d wrap myself in a bathrobe
and wander out onto my private terrace to watch
the night sky fade into a glorious morning. Far
below me the day’s first surfers were bobbing
around on the glittering, sun-kissed waves. It
was paradise.
I discovered that there is a unique beauty in
Mexico’s
slower, gentler pace. With my laptop thousands
of miles away and my useless phone tossed in a
corner of my duffel, I was forced to focus my attention
on the sensual pleasures all around me—the
taste of a warm tortilla wrapped around grilled
carne asada, the scratch of a dog stretching against
my foot, the sting of ocean spray in my eyes. Even
though I brought a work-related book to keep my
mind occupied, I couldn’t concentrate on
anything but the warmth of the sun on my shoulders
and the constant roar of the crashing waves. I
guess I needed a vacation after all.
For those of us who balance demanding careers
with relationships and families, trading wool suits
for wetsuits is an almost unimaginable luxury.
Although I traveled solo to Las Olas, spending
time with an extraordinarily accomplished group
of sister surfers from nine states and four countries
was one of the best parts of my week. Our shared
challenge of catching the perfect wave drew us
instantly together. As we introduced ourselves,
a new friend from Seattle who celebrated her fortieth
birthday in Mexico reminded us to let the worries
of the real world drift out with the tide. “This
week,” she told
us, “I’m a surfer.”
We cheered. From now on, we all are.
By Melissa Palmer
