The Finger

Yogic surfing. Surfic yoga. So many parallels. Both can be said to be chasing bliss, that elusive dragon that breathes into the lungs its fiery ecstasy then vanishes in a smoke stream...In their practice much is learned. Yoga, ever Yin, teaches to surrender and receive, bringing focus, balance, alignment. Surfing, as Yang as a warrior, fuels strength, bravery and determination.

In my yoga practice, the room is identical each morning; the mat unrolls onto the same surface. But oh, those unpredictable waves. They choose. The swell rolls in at the mercy of Neptune’s’ mysterious sea storms; the winds conspire in all directions, bestowing an offshore breeze when the mood takes them. And those days when I’m amped and ready for battle the sea can lie as flat as a lake.

Yoga is gentle. Nurturing. Even when I push the boundaries and flip into handstands and headstands and backbends, it ‘s safe. Not so with the wild sea. While it has meted out immense spiritual teachings, alas! What strange secrets and twisted dangers hide in its murk.

When I first felt what it was to stand on water, it was like in that action of wizardry reality and dream morphed into one. It didn’t matter if I was asleep or awake, the feeling was the same. That was the beginning. In surfing I could sense something majestic. And in the taming of the elements, something shamanic. Like the relentless dreams that call a sangoma, each surfer has had a calling. A tidal pull to battle the sea’s power. A sangoma endures trials of the body, internally, through visions, rituals and potions. A surfer endures trials of water. Shaped and sculpted by it like a stone.

When I began, like all bright-eyed young acolytes, I flung myself in head first. Knowing I would still be tested. Knowing I would be broken down by the might of the sea at some point, that I would need to sacrifice something. Little did I know what.

So a year down the line the scene shifts to Mozambique where I spent some idyllic weeks teaching yoga, giving Thai massage and surfing. And that’s where I made my offering to Yemaya, the sea goddess. The top joint of my right ring finger. Swept forever into the depths of her watery womb.

Even when I entered the water that day I felt fearful, without knowing why. Underlying everything like white noise on the radio. I made it out to the back line, but nosedived gracefully. I caught another and was slow to stand. Then I got pulled right down the beach by the current. I started walking to shore, being pounded by breakers in the shallows and somehow forgot what I had been told sometime before: “don’t hold the leash.” I did. It twisted around my finger and pulled hard as a powerful wave ripped my board to shore. I felt an intense pain for a second and looked down at my hand. My finger was gone. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Some B-movie horror scene glared back at me. My first thought was: “where is it? I should get it so they can sew it back on...” Ah, Yemaya. No returns on this one. No rewinds.

I zombie-walked to shore and lay on the sand, where I was encircled by mermaids, holding my legs up, stroking my head, giving me reiki. Telling me in soothing voices: “everything’s going to be just fine.” They wrapped up the finger in my t-shirt, but there wasn’t much blood. No pain anymore, only pure shock. “Just keep breathing”, the French lady said. “That’s the one thing I should know how to do” I replied. And that’s where my yoga training held me. I plugged into the source and just hung on, ever-present.

Nina the Swedish siren

From the mermaids to the surf doctors. I was in good hands. Peter and John like good disciples ditched their boards and picked up their medical kits. The universe provided. Peter the Czech trauma surgeon, who happened to be staying at the backpackers, teamed up with John the ex-doctor now meditating psychiatrist. I lay on the couch in the surf yoga lounge and Peter operated right there. No forty-five minute drive to the basic hospital in Inhambane. (“Mozambique is not a centre of medical excellence, Madame” said my health insurers later). He cleaned the wound, gave me local anaesthetic in the base of the finger (ouch), cleaning it again and stitching it up. He cut off a small piece of bone to prevent infection. Each step of the process the doctors told me clearly what he was going to do. But I was damn relieved that when he discussed the details in Czech with his lady (the obstetrician) I couldn’t understand a thing! I just closed my eyes, breathed and hummed. Sang softly. When they were done the doctors asked me to look at it: a stub with stitches. My hand.

It was a scene, there in the mellow lounge. John’s two totally un-squeamish little daughters watching the whole operation in gawking fascination. Nina, Swedish surf buddy and whale listener, always by my side, holding my hand, making me smile. While Shona the tipo tinto-swilling renegade filmmaker of Torture Cove got it all on digital video.

Doc Peter in action

And I lived to tell the tale many times over. So lucky. So blessed. The unbelievable coincidence of this fleet of incredibly kind and gentle doctors being present still shivers my spine. Many thoughts prickled my brain like urchin spikes: “will I be able to write? To type? To beat my djembe? To play guitar?”

I have made my sacrifice. As in the ingqithi custom practised by some Xhosa tribes, the top joint of my second last finger has been removed. Traditionally this gift appeases the ancestors, gains their protection. Some say it signifies belonging to the tribe. With this act I hope to journey safely into the waters. I have been inititated.

My fingertip: Nibbled by the fishes. Swallowed by the great Sea Goddess.

And I hope that from this point forth She will always be good to me.

Links

More about ingqiti http://www.sacultures.org.za/nemisa_2578.htm

Mozam surf mania http://www.youtube.com/user/umzimkulu1