Don't talk.

I stand at the edge of the sea. The heft of a long board presses against my side as I gaze outward, considering. The waves are beautiful; the ocean offering itself to the shore over and over again with rolling, rhythmic regularity. And the waves are powerful; white spray leaps upward, the water foams and rushes. I watch the line up of surfers, much more experienced than I will ever be, ripping up and down as they skim the break.

I am a cautious rider of waves. I have never feared water; while I am a truly terrible athlete when it comes to any sport with a ball, I have always been a confident, strong swimmer. I started body surfing while still small and just beginning to shoot upward. But throw in a board, and my nerves pick up.

I have located my sweet spot where the break becomes gentler, a place where I can play at the edge of fear, still finding the breath to guide me through.

On this day, I watch the sea for a beat. I find myself considering the ocean as a mother. Something about the rhythm: the pushing forward - “I am here” - and then the falling back - “And here is space”. Something about the steadiness of presence through change. “Give yourself to the rhythm,” a voice in me suggests, and I begin the strenuous journey outward, pressing in the opposite direction of the water’s considerable strength. Soon, my muscles strain. I gulp in oxygen. With each wave I move through, water sprays my face and I emerge, eyes smarting, waiting for clear vision to return.

Earlier the same day, I stood near the edge of a pool, teaching my son to swim. His body also finds the pattern of strokes easily, but he is afraid of the water. He does not want his face to submerge. His neck strains upward, adding effort.

But, he is determined. He wants to surf. He has watched his parents, and now his sister, ride the roll of the waves. He knows a good time when he sees one. And so, with the absolute luxury of a whole week with a pool, we have found ourselves frequently in the same place: he stands on the pool steps and I wait just in the water as he prepares to swim the pool’s length and then back again.

Each time, before he starts, he looks me square in the eyes. Each time, he says the same thing: “Ready to run? Don’t talk.”

It becomes a joke between us. He makes his voice deep, a smirk on his face, and I laugh. But it is also a reminder uttered with deep gravity. He wants my physical presence, but not my guidance as he, too, plays at the edge of fear.

I hope I will never forget the experience of laboring to birth my daughter. For just over 65 hours, we worked together, she and I. Through contractions, through changes in the birthing “plan” as the situation unfolded - as it always does - with unforeseen elements to consider, through a full two hours spent with my eyes closed, willing my body to relax and open, and finally through nearly five hours of pushing, we rode the waves together as one physical unit.

When she was finally brought into separate being via cesarean and placed into my arms, I looked at her with complete astonishment. It was instantly and vividly clear to me that she was her own person, a new mystery, someone I would get to spend the rest of my lifetime learning to understand. If I was lucky, I would get to run alongside, trying to keep up just so I could witness the unfolding. But she wasn’t me, despite the ride we’d navigated together.

“Ready to run? Don’t talk.” This might as well be the motto for the parenting approach she clearly prefers, abundantly apparent as she has grown. “Mom?” she will often say, checking that I am nearby. Very occasionally, she will ask for advice. Stories, she loves to hear, and we have turned to them to provide what insights we have gleaned from our decades wading through life. But, by and large, she wants to figure it out for herself.

When she decided she was ready to surf, she wanted me standing there in the water throughout her lesson. Not to teach her, to be present. And so I planted my feet on the sand as the water swirled back and forth around my body. I watched her instructor guide her onto the board and push her outward. Before he turned her to face the shore, she looked to me, her eyes checking in on my presence. And then she turned to face the shore, her attention complete, as her teacher sent her into the first wave. I watched as her board surged forward, lifting and then settling. I watched as her hands planted, determined, and pressed her body upward.

Quite suddenly, she was flying, arms outstretched for balance, gliding across the top of the water, shooting away from me towards the shore. I caught a quick glimpse of her face and recognized her expression. Utter joy.