Pitch darkness. The lack of oxygen removes the last bolts of energy from my limbs. Despair rushes over my emotions as I wait for an impact that never comes. And finally, I see the brightness and I use my final willpower to gasp for air. 

Upon the arrival in my home country Taiwan, I was subject to a mandatory 14-day quarantine without the freedom to even step outside or come in contact with another human being. The loneliness was the most uncomfortable silence, forcing me to dig into my own worst thoughts without a change of scenery to refresh. 

My isolation reminded me of a traumatic period of my childhood where I was separated from my peers, not allowing me to have outside contact while enduring abusive behavior from family members. The confinement in this trauma caused a behavioral issue of extremeness in me while trapping myself in a constant mental state of recession, convinced that there was no way out of this labyrinth of suffering. That was when the fear of loneliness overtook my adolescence, as well as my lack of self-esteem.

I never imagined a future for myself as a 12-year-old, and being trapped in that room at 19 seemed unreal. 
Although Covid-19 locked most families up in the 4 walls of solitude, I found myself caught in the magnificent outdoors and unwilling to be strapped down. Once I was released from quarantine, I grabbed a backpack and headed out the door with no timeline. As I searched for my destination, my unfamiliarity with my own home country brought a rush of shame.

I arrived at Blue Ocean Surf Club, unaware of how significant this day would later become. The first dive I took into the waves, the first pop-up I attempted on land which ended in failure in the water, the cold winds beating me back onshore as if it were telling me that I wasn’t ready

My natural instinct for human interaction disappeared after 2 weeks of solidarity confinement, and I struggled to connect with my coworkers. Even when surrounded by others, the feeling of loneliness confused me and I searched for change when more workers moved in.

Every day after work, I started taking the initiative to invite the coworkers to practice surfing together. I was embarrassed about my skill set, but that slowly took a turn as time passed by. The feeling of catching a wave and riding it to the end kept me working for more as I took surfing more seriously. Pure addiction, to the adrenaline of wave-riding, took over my life.

After 3 months of bunk beds, cold shower stalls, and a 20-person room that I called home, I said goodbye to Blue Ocean and returned to New York. A drastic change in my everyday habits became apparent. No longer was I exercising to tone the look of my body, but to gain muscle to improve my surfing skills. Food was not a source of stress anymore, but a source of fuel for the next surf session. My like became less about looks but more about what others couldn’t take away from me, that was my love for surfing. 

As I was gaining back my self-esteem, I found myself a victim of what could have been a deadly surf accident in the Rockaways one day. 

The windy Tuesday morning started like any other September day, as I took the A train from Nostrand to Rockaway 60th street. Magic Seaweed’s wave report forecasted 7ft waves, perfect for the shortboard that I had recently purchased off Craiglist. Unaware of the horrendous jetty accident from the morning, I paddled out near the breakwater without a wetsuit. What I forgot to pay attention to was the current, sweeping with the strongest force I had ever felt. And in an instant, a large gush of white waves pounded me out of control as I tumbled into darkness

Struggling to stay in control, my shortboard had been knocked from under my torso to god-knows-where, dragging me along while the fumigating waters tossed me back and forth. At this point, I was free swimming in a sinkhole that was the ocean. In surfing, we refer to the area of water where a wave was beginning to rise as the “outside” and the white waves that had already crashed as the “inside” — I was stuck in between. This part of the wave was the strongest, where the water is pulled to the highest and just about to crash down. While trying to escape this dangerous hell hole, I turn my back to see how far out I had swum.

That was when the most tremendous rush of fear instantly took over my body. I turned around to find the sharp, sturdy rocks from the jetty sitting right by my side. I knew I was doomed

“This is it.” I convinced myself that death was before my eyes. 

With milliseconds ticking away on the clock, I had to decide whether to let the ocean take my soul away or to fight against it. Knowing there was no way back that wouldn’t slam me right into the rocks, I had a split second to take a single breath and gave everything I could into swimming towards the outside. Another powerful wave knocked me out of position, and I tumbled into darkness again.

Water filled my lungs, and without direction, there was no way for me to know where I was. I thought of a 12-year-old me, hoping for an end to the misery that was my trauma, realizing this could be it. And I decided, I was not ready to end it all that day. 

As if a miracle had happened, my eyes flashed with brightness again even still closed underwater. I kicked and pushed as I floated higher and higher and finally popping my head out of water. My body was in complete shock, but I was relieved to see the jetties further away than I had last experienced. Without much oxygen left, I let the waves wash me ashore.

That first touch of land on my toes felt like being born again. 

For weeks after, I cried myself to sleep, unable to erase the image of darkness and despair. I had never felt so lonely until I was stuck in the bottom of the ocean — 1 minute longer and I probably would not be here writing. The seconds I spent buried in the grave of water felt longer than my 2 weeks of quarantine.

As time went on, I noticed that being alone no longer upset me. The fear of solitude left my mental occupancy, and I stopped racing again my own clock. I had broken down the wall I built up inside of me when I was 12.