Late Thursday morning I stood poised by the ocean, surfboard under my arm, feeling very excited and just a little bit nervous. Petra was going to teach me how to surf.

"Maybe we should go over the basics while we're on the beach," Petra said.

I considered. I like to think of myself as having been blessed with above-average balance, which of course is what surfing is all about. I declined the dry-land training and launched myself into the waves.

It didn't take me too long to figure out that balance is not what surfing is all about. Surfing is, in fact, about paddling. Lots of it. About 100 meters from the shore was where the rather meagre waves were breaking, so Petra and I set about getting ourselves there. The incoming foam and stiff breeze conspired against us but we eventually made it to where some likely waves were appearing.

The extent of Petra's surfing instruction was this: "When you see a good wave, turn around and paddle as hard as you can. Then, stand up." With these words of wisdom running through my head, I waited for the perfect wave to appear.

And waited. The waves were small, only about two feet, and pickings were slim. Every now and then a candidate would appear and Petra would yell at me to paddle, paddle harder, and I would pull at the water with all my might while the wave passed harmlessly beneath me. I'd then sigh, turn around, and paddle back out to where we thought the good waves should be.

This charade continued for a half hour, and my arms were beginning to feel like spaghetti. On my first visit to Hawai'i I'd tried to learn how to windsurf on a windless day, and surfing without surf is a similarly exhausting exercise in futility. Then, off in the distance, I caught sight of a gorgeously glistening mound of blue slowly rolling towards me. This was the wave I'd been waiting for.

I yelled something unintelligible at Petra, turned my board around, and waited for the wave to approach. As it came close I faced the shore, gritted me teeth, and sank my arms into the water. I pulled and grunted, straining at the effort, and was rewarded with little in the way of motion. Time seemed to stretch as I paddled, panting, going nowhere and waiting for the wave that wouldn't arrive. My arms ached and I continued to churn the water around me. Then, slowly, incredibly slowly, I felt myself being lifted by the oncoming surge. Time froze, holding me at the top of the face. I was in the moment. Traces of salt water were in my eyes and nose and mouth; the sun was hard on my back; the board was hard beneath me; wind and foam filled my ears with a soothing roar. This three-foot wave felt like a mountain and I could see the shore for miles. Then, smoothly, time resumed and I began to surf.

Many Eastern philophies teach that enlightenment can only occur when the atman, or self, becomes one with the brahman, or universal soul. For a few seconds, as I rushed along with the wind and water, I understood enlightenment. I was a wave. Then, my atman re-emerged and I became aware that lying on my stomach, holding the sides of the board in a death-grip, could hardly be considered the pinnacle of surfing. I put a tentative knee on the board, preparing myself for that final fatal step upwards, but the wave had crumpled into a splash of playful foam and I went with it.

I pulled myself back up onto my board, grinning from ear to ear. I flashed Petra a hang-loose sign and sent a joyful yell out over the waves. I was hooked.