by Carrie Robertson - June 2005

With my post-pregnancy pooch still evident, I felt a little self conscious standing on the beach in my bikini that day. Holding my board and sail high, I lifted them over the shorebreak as I stepped into the sand-colored water at North Beach.

Since giving up windsurfing at three months into the pregnancy, I hadn’t touched my gear for over seven months – longer than I had gone without sailing for a decade. Windsurfing had been my passion for over 20 years, both working as an instructor and free sailing on my own. But during the last few months of pregnancy and while waiting for my cesarean scar to heal, even taking a long walk was an accomplishment. Physically, I felt like a different person, like I was in somebody else’s body.

Eager to get me back on my board, my husband Pete came home from work that windy evening in May, six weeks after the birth of our son, and announced, “I think we should make a concerted effort to get you out on the water tonight.” Fifteen pounds overweight and out of shape, I could barely remember the old me, but I longed to find her again and felt that windsurfing was the first step. Watching the orange windsock in our yard, I nursed the baby at the picnic table while Pete rigged my 4.7, put the plug and fin into my 8’2” board, and dusted off my waist harness.

Sucking it in, I stretched the harness’ cumber bun around my now-pudgy waistline and found I was just able to make the Velcro meet. By extending the webbing an inch or two, I got the hook in place.

While Pete walked my gear down to the beach, I carried the baby beside him. Passing the now-full baby off to his father, I bend down and picked up my gear. With the feel of the boom in my left hand and the soft padded foot strap in my right, I began the familiar balancing act of walking my gear down to the water. Each movement, normally so second nature, took on a deja vu feel as I experienced them anew.

Since we had bought the house on North Beach during my pregnancy, I hadn’t launched here before. The side-onshore wind brought in rows of small waves that hit me chest-high. I struggled to keep the nose pointed into the waves and the sail cleared as I pushed my gear through the shorebreak and out to the second sandbar.

Finally, standing in waist high water, I lifted the sail over my head, put my back foot on the board and felt the sail lift and the gear come to life. As I hooked in and got in the straps, I felt the return of my old self as the board accelerated. Feeling the rust melt away, I hopped the first piece of steep chop and pointed the board toward the horizon.