Sixty-one years after my dad learned to surf at a military beach on Oahu, I paddled out at the same break. Sobriety made sure I actually felt it.
My dad learned to surf when he was nine years old at a beach called Barbers Point on the west side of Oahu. It was a military beach back then, accessible because my grandpa was flying planes for the Navy. My dad and his brothers would walk down to the water and stay there until the sun forced them home. No sunscreen. No supervision worth mentioning. Just the ocean and a board and whatever a nine-year-old boy decides is enough.
He came back with blisters on his face. Chapped lips. Sometimes bleeding from the sun. And he went back the next day anyway.
That's the version of my father I think about now, standing in the same water sixty-one years later. Not the man I call on the phone. Not the dad who raised me in Monterey. The kid. The one who fell in love with the ocean before he had language for what that meant.
A Break That Changed a Family
My dad lived on Oahu from about nine to twelve or thirteen, and those years shaped everything that came after. When the Navy moved my grandpa to China Lake, which is about as far from the ocean as California gets, my dad carried that salt water grief with him. He always swore he'd get back.
He did. And he made sure the rest of us got there too.
Growing up, surfing was the family language. Cold water sessions in Monterey where my dad would wrestle us into wetsuits and we'd splash around on boogie boards. Getting smacked in the face by a surfboard and laughing about it after. Road trips to warmer breaks when we could manage it. My sister fell so deep into it she married a surf instructor and moved to Costa Rica. My brother and I still make it a point to get in the water whenever we can.
My mom grew up on the east coast, also near the water but in a very different way. She didn't have money for surf lessons or beach gear. But she always had the pull toward the ocean, and when she met my dad, their love for it merged into something the whole family shared. That's rare. I don't take it for granted.
Paddling Out at White Plains
Barbers Point is now called White Plains Beach. It's open to the public these days, no military ID required. The break is mellow. Forgiving. Exactly the kind of wave a nine-year-old would cut his teeth on.
My dad's older brother, my uncle, still has a place on Oahu. Right in the heart of where they grew up. He let me stay there for a week while I was on the island, and that generosity brought the whole thing full circle.
I paddled out in the afternoon when the water was a bit choppy and raucous. The beach was packed. Families everywhere. Parents carrying their young kids on the front of the board, doubling up, waves breaking all over the place. I got easily ten waves in thirty minutes. It was effortless, joyful, alive.
And it hit me: no wonder this was such a special break for my dad. No wonder his brother still lives right here. No wonder people keep coming back. I thought about little Greg, seventy years old now, who sixty-one years ago was one of those kids on this same shoreline. Same water. Same energy. Different decade, different man, same love.
That hit me in a way I wasn't expecting.
What Sobriety Gave Me Here
If I had been drinking or using, I would have been at that beach and completely missed it. I might have surfed. I might have posted a photo. But the depth of what that moment actually held, the emotional container of it, I would have floated right past it.
That's the thing about recovery that's hard to explain to people who haven't lived it. It doesn't just keep you alive. It makes you available. Available to feel something when it's worth feeling. Available to sit in the discomfort of missing your dad while also being deeply grateful for him at the same time. Available to connect a nine-year-old boy to a forty-year-old man through nothing but water and memory.
Nearly two decades of sobriety made that afternoon possible. Not the flight. Not the surfboard. The ability to be present for it.
The Opposite of Addiction Is Connection
I've heard that phrase so many times it almost lost meaning. But standing in my father's childhood ocean, staying in my uncle's home, thinking about how my sister found her way to the waves through a completely different door, it came back to life for me.
So much of what we explore in psychology and recovery comes back to family. Attachment styles. The ways we learned to bond or not bond. Nature versus nurture, and honestly it's always both. Fifty-fifty. Half of who we are comes from the people who raised us, the environment they built, the rituals they repeated until those rituals became ours.
Surfing was one of those rituals for my family. Not perfect. My family isn't perfect. But the ocean was always the place where my dad connected to his inner child, and watching that joy pass through our family, from him to us, across decades and coastlines, that's something worth protecting.
The Invitation
You might not have a surfing story. But you probably have something. A place your parents grew up. A tradition that meant more than anyone said out loud. A spot on the map that holds a piece of someone you love.
If you can get there, go. And if you're able to, go sober. Because you deserve to actually feel it when you arrive.
I've written more about how travel and sobriety intersect at Nomadic Addictt, and you can learn more about my work and story at zacspowart.com.
Every day is a gift. Sobriety is our best chance of living in appreciation for that. I'm grateful my dad handed me a surfboard before I knew what it meant. And I'm grateful recovery made sure I was paying attention when it finally did.
What's the place or tradition that connects you most deeply to the people who raised you? And have you been back lately?
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Whether you are navigating early sobriety, planning your first sober trip, or looking for someone to walk alongside you, I am here. Learn more at Nomadic Addictt or start the conversation.