“Ditch the paddle. Grab a parawing. Stop torturing yourself.” 

I’ve heard these sentiments all summer. Friends, loved ones, my own internal voices — a steady chorus of quit, quit, quit.

Today, quitting downwind SUP foiling is tempting. The river is churned; a mosh pit of motion. Twenty minutes in, and not a single ride on foil. I’m on my feet, but barely, all wobbles. A failed sobriety test in action. Sploosh.

I’m wasting a perfectly windy day. Energy surrounds me. Other wind sports surround me. Faster sports. Easier sports. Bright, colorful, whimsical, flowy sports. And me? I’m a bobbing bath toy, haltingly, hopelessly adrift. Sploosh.

The phrase, “It’s raining soup, and I’ve got a fork,” comes to mind, but my predicament on this river isn’t bad luck. I had my pick of spoons. I chose the fork. Yesterday, it was the right choice. I was a superhero flying. I wore a cape. Today, I’m wearing a diaper. What is happening?

A silky swell unfurls – a runway for takeoff. Paddle, paddle, paddle! Zilch. No pop up onto foil. I lean over, gassed. Shake it off. Deep breaths. Reset. You’ve got this. Sploosh.

F*** me! 

Friends approach from upwind. All of ‘em in their 20s. All of ‘em on foil. Effortless motion crisscrossing; audible hoots and whoops. They fly by with words of encouragement, and glazed grins. They’re tapped into an energy source that appears endless, accessible and close. So agonizingly close. They’re just a few feet away, soaring, smiling. These young, skilled, exceedingly nice … a**holes. Every one of ‘em.

A buzzing startles me. I think bees, swarming bees. I duck, plant my paddle, and brace against it, as if it’s a cane. An old man hunched over his cane. This is what’s being captured on film by a drone that now hovers over me. I lift my hand toward the buzzing, middle finger raised and … Sploosh.

Enough. Quit. Give up. 

Rising from the water, I spot the drone moving on. It climbs sharply, unnaturally, as if piloted by aliens. Tiny aliens. I imagine greenies with orange eyes in the cockpit. I envision their view of this river and its riders. Surely, I would be the first plucked. The meek. The vulnerable. The aliens would select me. Earth’s first specimen. Then a thought: I would welcome it. Choose me. Take me. End this madness. Sploosh.

It’s tempting to share a turning point here. A magical session saving run with seismic payoffs. Perhaps I rise onto foil, make exquisite arcing turns, and catch up to my young friends. But that didn’t happen.

And that’s the heart of my confession: There are no fairytales in downwind SUP foiling. Its learning curve is not linear. The session detailed above wasn’t Day 1, nor week 1. The session followed a month of regular riding, with tangible progress. Then – sploosh! I’m cursing friends, flipping off drones, and welcoming an alien abduction.

So why bother? Why downwind SUP foil? Thankfully, there’s more to this sport than its suffering – especially for mature, mortal riders. Namely, weight loss, turn-back-the-clock energy, and relief from chronic joint pain. I’ve found these things paddling.

Below is more on that, along with takeaways I wish I’d known from the start. Takeaways that combat the suffering, and keep me motivated to keep at it. But be warned: In downwind SUP foiling, a session of sploosh forever looms.