Photo by Dan Labate

Imagine this: You’re standing near our Vermont farmhouse on Galusha Hill looking east to the White Mountains over in New Hampshire. It’s just rained and a heavy mist hangs over the mountains like gauzy drapes, turning them slate blue and grey and indistinct. They’re less like peaks and hills and more like softly curving lines that coalesce at their touching points, creating a pattern that’s no longer fixed but somehow fluid.

It starts raining again, the wind whipping, the leaden sky spraying water everywhere. Suddenly the hills start to roll and liquefy until they turn into huge undulating waves. Just as suddenly you are lying on a small board and your job is to ride these rolling, sinuous hills with all the grace they deserve.

That’s sea tai chi.

Or you’re crouched in a reef pool here in Bathsheba on the east coast of Barbados where the warm sea water embraces you. Your feet are apart and firmly planted in the sand, your arms outstretched and flexible as the next wave washes over the pool.  A cascade of swirling water surrounds and supports you. Your body sways and stretches in a way that strengthens without stress. Just a natural sea dance where your job is to maintain balance.

That’s sea tai chi.

The word chi means life force and tai means supreme. I’ve always thought of it as something internal, but now I understand that the supreme life force exists externally, too. It’s physical as well as metaphysical. The sea, in the realest sense possible, is full of the supreme life force, and it gives it up gladly, even gleefully, to those who come seeking.

Photo by Nik Ponzio

I am a seeker, no doubt about it, and the lessons the sea teaches me as I soak up its chi have real-life application and meaning to me. Most of the time the teachings are gentle reminders or sweet epiphanies, but sometimes I need a good whack to wake me up because I’m just not getting it even when I’m sure I am. Here’s what I mean:

Paddling out at Parlors is always challenging because there are few, if any, lulls between sets of waves, just endless walls of relentless whitewater whose job is to push you back, push you back, back back! As with all tai chi, there are certain forms one must follow. In sea tai chi the local surfers and body boarders model these movements, like how to dive your board beneath an approaching wave. I’ve been practicing those moves for  years, and I think I’m getting pretty good at them, so good that my attention today is behind my head feeling for those on shore who might be appreciating my fine form. Whap! A wave wakes me up with a stern slap to the face. Oh, I get it: Don’t look back! Stay focused on what’s coming towards me.

Then for the first time I notice that each approaching wave is individual and distinct. Before this I saw the whole thing, all the chaos. I fought and tried to force my way through the heavy break, tiring quickly, desperate to get outside where I could rest in the rolling swells. So I bulled my way through, paddling hard and indiscriminately. Now I slow down, study each oncoming wave, and look for the easiest way to get through. When I do this, time slows down and the sea opens up to me, almost magically. I quickly skim over the swirling blue waters to safe haven just beyond the break.

That’s sea tai chi.

Photo by Matt Labate