Open Water: A Journey Through Surfing and Autism Matthew Ellison

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Open Water: A Journey Through Surfing and Autism

Matthew Ellison

The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever. -Jacques Cousteau

I do not know Connor Ford, but I can see him.

He is 5’9, 165 pounds and riddled with anxiety. He perseverates on small things: his daily schedule, the color of his clothes, and the amount of moisture in the air.

I do not know Connor Ford, but I can hear him.

He is with his mother, La Donna, driving through Northern California and toward bohemian idealism, toward oceanic bliss, toward Bolinas and Natalie Pepper’s Spectrum Surf Camp. The windows are slightly ajar, and the smell of salt water and pine gently roll through the car. The sound of the waves has yet to come into focus but the adrenaline builds, and the world feels quiet.

I do not know Connor Ford, but I can sense him.

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La Donna lightly grips his hand as they descend over rocks and make their way to the beach. Originally from Arkansas, she quit her career as an anesthesiologist after Connor’s diagnosis.

As they approach the water, he looks at the waves, and then he looks at her, then back at the waves. It’s a process that repeats itself and is known as joint attention. He wants to smile. He wants to share his happiness with her. He wants to laugh and to scream and burst through his body. He just doesn’t know how.

California is known for having some of the best surf in the country -- Bolinas is no exception. And in a different life, it’s 10 am at Bolinas Beach. Connor is already in his 5mm wetsuit, a 9-foot longboard is safely secured underneath his arm, and he is briskly walking along the water’s edge to gage set times, temperature, and to wake up.

In a different life, I can see our friendship. We’d drift down Wharf Road toward Bo-Gas, the only station in town. We’d turn on Brighton Avenue and get wax for our boards at the 2 Mile Surf Shop. Maybe in this life, I live without my anxieties. Maybe in this life, Connor lives without autism. In this life, we are bonded through surfing. It heals us. It protects us. It frees us.

In this life, we’re both volunteers at Natalie’s camp.

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I’d tell the more than 100 children, all of whom have autism, that the moments leading up to the first contact are my favorite, especially in the early morning. You hear the crack of each break, you smell the salt more intensely, your body feels and anticipates the water, and your mind begins to actualize the experience. Then you have transcendence. The water is liberation. The board is freedom. The combination is a drug.

We would continue and tell them that there is something primal about the water. It’s vast and blue and untamed. It is a catalyst for life, for romance, and for healing. It is inescapable. And it’s pure.

After the final session, we would catch up with Natalie. We would drink beers by the water’s edge and reflect on the non-verbal kids – the children who were able to smile for the first time because of a surfboard. And we would cheers the parents, who if only briefly, found refuge from their anxieties through a book or the organized chaos that is surfing.

But this is not a different life. I won’t pretend that my struggles parallel Connor’s. I’ll never know how autism feels, how Connor feels. But sometimes, in my quieter moments, I imagine that I’m 20 feet below the ocean. I imagine waiting until all of the air has left my body and then bursting through the water’s surface. That feeling exists for Connor as well, and surfing facilitates it.

The healing powers of the ocean, of water, have been analyzed

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for hundreds of years. Wallace J Nichols is a marine biologist and author. In 2014, he wrote a book entitled Blue Mind that sought to uncover why water induced relaxation. He found that the weightlessness of water calms the mind, slows brain function, and alleviates external stressors by blocking out excess peripheral stimuli.

Moreover, he explains that cold ocean water activates receptors beneath the skin that release adrenalin and endorphins. Consistent exposure strengthens the immune system and can augment digestive function.

In this life, the ocean is being used in tandem with surfing to offer therapeutic alternatives to children in need. In this life and in this moment, we are at the beach. Connor is lying on his surfboard, unable to stand up. A volunteer guides him into the water. The waves gently crash against the board. Salt water sprays his face.

In this moment, I can see La Donna. I can imagine her standing alone on the beach away from the other parents. I can imagine her with her arms folded, black sunglasses adorning her face, and a paperback book, whose spine is yet to be cracked, tightly rolled in her hands. If anyone were to approach, she would tell, as she told me, that Connor is happiest in the water. On land, Connor has difficulty knowing where his body is in space. He’ll walk along and come into contact with trees, with people, with the world. As it relates to navigating his physical reality and physical spaces, his body does not work.

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If you approach her, she’ll tell you that it doesn’t matter if he is on medication or adhering to his schedule, Connor is always anxious. She will tell of you the fleeting moments when he seems to be at peace -- the moments when he is able to escape himself, his mind, his anxiety. And she will tell you that these moments happen in the water. She will tell you that these moments happen on the surfboard and on the beach at Natalie’s camp. She will tell you that the world is hard for him on a day-to-day basis and to see him on the board, as happy as he can be, will grab your heart.

In this life, it doesn’t matter that the Fords are not a surfing family. It doesn’t matter that Connor cannot stand up on the board. It matters that he feels connected to it. It matters that he lies on the board in the water and floats, mentally and physically. It matters that he smiles. It matters that she smiles.

In this life, what is important is that the young man who grew up watching the surfers in Santa Cruz is no longer a spectator. In this life, and on this beach in Bolinas, there is a connection between a mother and her son that is assisted by the ocean and surfing and a camp meant to bring all of these elements together.

When pressed, I always tell people that surfing is magic. The science behind surfing therapy is vague. However, the feeling of being in the water, duck diving beneath waves as you make your way into the ocean’s unknown vastness – that is pure. I do not know Connor Ford, but he is my brother in the truest sense. We are connected by something ethereal and powerful. We are connected by a piece of polyurethane foam and fiberglass layers of boards. We are connected through magic.