My Dad paddles furiously at the water, working to get in front of the wave and glide his wide and heavy stand up paddle board towards the shore line. He looks thin, almost frail in his black wet suit, his tall form hunched over to wrest every inch of balance from the wobbly board. The wave gathers speed, my Dad bends his knees and moves his feet ever so slightly on the board, and then crash – he is in the water, heels over head, again.

This is my Dad’s morning ritual every January and February when he and my Mom vacation in sunny Southern California. Every morning he battles with the ocean, fighting for a ride on a wave, something so simple, something so incredibly difficult at 76 years old. My Dad is not a life-long surfer – a factor which might have made this late life obsession more feasible. No, my Dad learned to surf just 10 years ago, taking a few lessons and getting out on the board every day while on vacation. My parents’ winter vacation stretches longer each year, fueled by Dad’s desire to catch a wave. When I joined him for two mornings this winter, he was on a 42 day streak, aiming to catch 10 waves each day. It sometimes took him all of his 90 minute session to catch those 10 waves.

If I want to go surfing with my Dad, I have to get up at the crack of dawn. It is still dark outside, the ocean is cold and uninviting even in a wet suit. This is how he vacations, with intention, with a purpose, with a goal of catching 10 waves every morning. For the first two mornings of my visit, I woke early and walked to a nearby coffee shop to write while my husband and kids slept. I had a delicious cup of hot coffee, sat at a table next to the window with the coffee shop door open to the morning California breeze. It was inspiring, productive, relaxing.

But the next two days of my vacation, I joined my Dad to paddle surf. Because I can’t do that any old day back home in Kansas. Because mornings on the ocean with my Dad are numbered. It’s been a tradition for a decade now, but every year I consider if this will be the last time my family will meet in California for a short reprieve from our Midwestern winter. My Mom’s health is the big question mark. Each year she gets more unsettled by the change, this home away from home feels less familiar. This year my parents brought my Mom’s caregiver with them for the first time. I wonder if my Dad fights the waves because he can’t fight my Mom’s dementia. The more he surfs, the more idle she becomes. In a moment of morbid weakness, as I think of my Dad out surfing in the dark of morning by himself, I wonder which will take one of my parent’s first – the ocean or Alzheimer’s Disease.

Not that my Dad has a death wish, far from it. He is living life to the limit, loving his quest to catch the perfect wave. He wears a life jacket and surfs in and around familiar people each day. He has surfer friends! Just about everyone in the parking lot at the beach knows Dad. One after another they find their way over to him and say hello as he is unloading his board from the car. The improbable 76 year-old surfer from Kansas. He doesn’t compare himself to the experts, doesn’t worry what they think. He finishes each session tired, but not defeated. Getting back to surf another day is a victory in itself. He shows up. He catches a wave. He falls down. He gets back up.

It’s a metaphor for life, of course. And my writer’s journey is much like his surfing quest. I show up to write every morning, applying the discipline he’s taught me for 46 years. I know what it means to work hard, maybe too well. I’ve learned just as much what not to do from my Dad as I’ve learned what to do. We didn’t vacation much when I was growing up – I can count our family trips on one hand. Dad was working, always working. He never had time for hobbies, barely had time for his family. He is making up for lost time with all of us now, with my Mom every day.

But in this singular focus on learning something new, on finding joy in the effort of trying, I take my Dad’s cues. Just like he hits the waves every day rain or shine, I open my Scrivener file to the memoir I’ve been working on for over a year now. It takes persistence, determination, humility. Writing is solitary, the process can feel futile, my drafts are read only by me. And yet opening my laptop every morning and seeing my words on the screen, seeing the stories I want to tell there waiting for me – I’m filled with purpose and renewed conviction. Time flies and before I realize it, I’ve written all the words, ridden all the waves I can that morning.

We fall. We get back up. We surf and write because we can, because we must. Because it makes us feel alive.