I will punch a shark in the face

Today we learned how to surf. This means that I now have one more thing in common with actor Paul Walker, besides the uncommonly good looks and successful movie career. (Wait...what?) You could tell that in the back of everyone's mind (and in the front of some, and coming out of my mouth) were worries about sharks. You may have heard once or twice that Australia has a bit of a shark problem. They are everywhere and they are nasty. I am here to tell you all that sharks are not that bad. They are boring. Not one shark in an entire day of surfing. They were scared and I can't blame them. We're Americans. We're crazy.
I looked around trying to figure out which person was our surf instructor. There was the lady with the two kids chasing around a bird. Doubtful. A young couple, both draped in dreads, that pulled up on bicycles. Possibly. A middle-aged balding man in a polo. God, I hope not. It turned out to be a sun-baked bleach blonde Aussie who's name until right before the lesson I thought actually was Mojo. Turns out Mojo was the name of the surf company. Who knew? Everyone but me.
After getting over the intial disappointment that I wasn't being taught by surf master Mojo, we began our suf lesson like I imagine many do: with a light stretch, some calistenics that I'm convinced he made us do just to see how stupid we were willing to look in public, and some brief instructions on how to get onto the board. We also got some kind of lecture over riptides and drowning, but most of us found it far more important to pay attention to how good we looked on the boards. And we did. Finally, it was time. I'm paddling and I'm in the zone and I pop up and land on the board perfectly. I am riding the board flawlessly. First try. I am amazing. I could do this blindfolded. I am the LeBron James of surfing. I'm feeling so good that I think I'm even ready to try it in the ocean.
It proved far more difficult with actual waves. Crazy, I know. Many of us spent the next twenty minutes being lured in by waves only to be smashed down into the ocean floor over and over again. I think many of us began feeling like dogs chasing cars when it came to the waves. We wouldn't even know what to do if we caught one. Just when it seemed like all was lost and I was about to go John McEnroe on my surboard ("You can't be serious!") it happened. I caught a perfect wave, didn't slip, popped up and rode it all the way into the beach (Though I have to admit it took all the strength I had to keep from channeling my inner Ninga Turtle, screaming "Cowabunga" or "Surf's Up, Dude!", and in doing so embarrassing every single American and offending every real surfer within earshot). Don't believe it happened? There was a professional photographer there. And he took pictures. Which I now have. Boom. How's your mind? Blown? Watch out Kelly Slater.
Since the majority of the group at least caught one wave I am sure they can back me up when I say that catching that first wave is kind of like a first kiss. You're shaky, you have no idea what is going on, it happens way too fast, it is a little more wet than you'd prefer, but at the end you can't wait to do it again.
Now I just have to hope the ocean doesn't have wi-fi.