Schauer
Cold summer rain had drenched the city mer hours before I set off into the Englischer Gartens. I walk up river. The water was fast and loud, the sound of bike bells and the occasional chatter of teenagers was nearly washed out by the sound. The ground is soft and wet beneath my feet, a reminder to stay grounded. Right before the park lets out into the city there is a tunnel that feeds the river. Water blasts out of the tunnel, white and sharp, and beside the rampant waves are surfers. I’ve seen the surfing of California; the Ocean Beach ice water surfers, the Half Moon Bay giant wave riders and the L.A. Coast boys and girls who dip their boards in warmer waters. I have never seen anything like this. They fly. They jump into these brash waves and tackle them. The flippant and heavy current is a song they know well and one they play over and over until they know the lyrics by heart. Their bodies and the boards move as one, dipping and swerving with the waves. Every now and then one will hit a bad spot and wipeout. They’ll disappear underneath the white rapids and I hold my breath as they hold theirs. They bob back up all smiles and thumbs up and then the next rider will fling out over the water. One after another, they surf. The Eisbach River carrying the fallen down stream until they swim to the edge, only to run back up to take their place in line.
I think of them as stupid. There are signs all around warning of the dangers of swimming and surfing in this area. A tour guide tells me that people have died doing this, and yet the surfers still return. Why do something that could kill you? I know the dangers of the ocean. It’s vastness, it deepness, and it’s consistencies. I know the salt air that accompanies each crash of a wave into sandy beaches. I know the quickening of breath that is felt when a wetsuit clad Californian surfer free falls back into the icy waters of the San Francisco bay. There is a thrill to it, with the underlying fear of being dragged out to sea. Perhaps that is what these surfers seek as well.
A young man takes up his board and gets a running start into the waters. He hits the wave and splashes water onto the onlookers. The smile on his face tells all. He tracks back and forth, spinning the angle of his board and twisting his body to account for the rivers next move. When he is ready he lets go. He falls backwards, his arms open and that gleaming smile still on his face. He sinks below the rapids, almost as soft as snow, cover him. Moments later he reappears, arms still stretched outward. Another rider drops in and the cycle continues. It’s not that they are brave, I doubt they think of themselves as, it is that they do not fear what might happen. Unlike me. I had come to Europe with the dream to find myself, as so many do. Instead, I watch surfers.
They know they will surf today. They know that the water will be cold and relentless, but they will surf regardless. They know the Prinzregentstrasse bridge will hold tourist that will watch in disbelief. They know that bravery is not jumping onto the wave, bravery is not about taking the plunge.
I stand on the bridge and watch surfer after surfer ride the white water. A new rain has begun but that doesn’t matter. The water from the quick stops and sudden wipeouts has already baptized me. It feels good. I’m not ready to jump from the bridge, but I untie my shoes, tuck my socks inside them, and dip my feet into the waves of Munich.
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