In surfing, there’s a place known as the impact zone—that stretch of water just beyond the calm, where the waves crash with force and fury. It’s where the action happens, the thrill lives, and, if you're not careful, where you can get knocked down hard. The best surfers learn to navigate through it, timing their paddle-outs just right, diving under or over the waves, trusting their instincts and experience to guide them through the chaos. Novices, on the other hand, often get stuck there—battered, disoriented, and struggling to get back to calm water.
Life has its own impact zones.
Moments when everything hits at once. Work demands, family stress, financial strain, health scares, lost time, lost people. It’s tempting to think success is about staying on top of every wave, but in reality, the trick is learning how to ride through the whitewater and keep moving forward—gracefully when possible, humbly when not.
That’s where the lesson of hanging loose comes in.
Duke Kahanamoku, the legendary father of modern surfing, understood this better than most. Olympic gold medalist, global ambassador of aloha, and lifelong waterman, Duke didn’t just ride waves—he rode life. With style, ease, and generosity. “Out of the water, I’m nothing,” he once said. But that wasn’t a lament. It was a reminder of where he found his center. His peace. His purpose.
And that’s something many of us forget as we chase promotions, accumulate deadlines, or try to keep pace with someone else’s definition of success.
We get stuck in the impact zone of life, thinking the next wave—one more deal, one more milestone, one more email—will carry us where we want to go.
But maybe what we really need is a little time in the lineup. A good meal with people who know our story. A slow drink at sunset. Laughter with friends. Music that moves us. Time spent barefoot and unhurried. Time spent with the ones we love. Not the kind of success you can measure on a spreadsheet, but the kind that feeds your soul.
I grew up in Key West, where the horizon was never more than a few blocks away, and the breeze seemed to whisper a reminder: slow down, breathe deep, trust the tide. The island lifestyle may be a bit quirky—where socks are formal wear and 15 minutes late is right on time—but it teaches you to bend with the wind, not break against it.
Fishing taught me patience. Skin diving taught me to trust my breath. But the ocean itself? It taught me resilience. Humility. Wonder.
Most importantly, it taught me that we’re all surfers out here—some of us catching waves, others waiting for the next set. And every now and then, you wipe out. Hard. And when that happens, what really matters isn’t how epic your ride was, but who’s in the water with you. Who helps you back on your board. Who paddles alongside you. Who cheers you on when it’s your turn to shine.
Because at the end of the day, whether the waves are pumping or glassy, life isn’t about dominating the ocean—it’s about showing up for your fellow surfers.
So hang loose. Keep paddling. Stay present. And never forget what really matters: not the wave, but the ride—and who’s riding it with you.
