“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.” ~African Proverb
Late morning heat rises over South India as salt dries on skin and fabric, the Arabian Sea brilliant and bath‑warm nearby. After a surf session, the body hums with exertion and exhilaration—evidence that capability can grow at any stage of life. Set against the daily rhythms of a coastal fishing village in Kerala, this is an account of returning to the water after a decade, learning steadily, and choosing self‑acceptance over the pressures of ageism and appearance.
Surfing consistently became a two‑year goal and was achieved through methodical practice. That milestone holds particular meaning given a serious surfing accident a decade earlier that nearly damaged the teeth and imprinted fear throughout the body. In the years that followed, athletic focus shifted from sport to yoga, where disciplined attention to breath, alignment, and endurance offered both structure and sanctuary.
Travel to Kerala began with the intention of a ten‑week intensive in Ashtanga under a respected teacher, followed by a return to Rishikesh. The pandemic intervened, extending the stay on the Malabar coast. Serendipitously, the local point and beach breaks provided reliable waves. The sea, once a source of trauma, became a laboratory for gradual, embodied confidence.
Reentry into surfing started deliberately from the beginning. As a fiftieth birthday gift, ten foundational lessons reintroduced paddling mechanics, board control, pop‑up timing, and ocean reading. In training terms, this was graded exposure: small, repeatable challenges that restore competence and recalibrate the nervous system. Patience replaced bravado; consistency replaced comparison.
During those early sessions, a classmate in his mid‑thirties asked, with candid curiosity common in many parts of India, how old she was. “Fifty,” came the reply. A well‑meant response—“I hope I’m still surfing at your age”—landed uneasily, revealing how readily ability is compared to chronology. The question lingered: Why should age frame what is possible?
Two years later, after morning waves and a roadside chai, an older gentleman with grey hair asked again, “What is your age?” “Fifty‑two,” came the answer. His jaw dropped: “I thought you were seventy. You have really bad skin.” The bluntness stung. It was not the first time. Each instance briefly knocked the wind out of the sails, a reminder of how external judgments can rattle even a grounded inner compass.
In response, humor and reframing emerged as practical tools. The mischievous idea of replying “eighty‑five” highlighted how arbitrary such appraisals can be—and returned the focus to what matters: function over facade, lived experience over surface inspection. Energy once spent managing appearance was reallocated to training, recovery, and meaningful work.
Today, practice is anchored by the complete Intermediate Series of Ashtanga (Nadi Shodhana) six days a week—backbends, deep hip and shoulder work, and pranayama that challenge and refine the nervous system—alongside daily surfing. In the lineup, twenty‑something surfers now offer fist bumps and respect for clean takeoffs on larger sets; questions about age have largely ceased. Skill speaks fluently across generations.
Appearance, meanwhile, reflects a lifetime outdoors. Genetics that do not favor smooth skin, combined with years in equatorial sun, have produced weathering typical of photoageing. From a physiological standpoint, chronic UVA exposure penetrates the dermis, upregulates matrix metalloproteinases (MMPs), degrades collagen and elastin, and accelerates lines and laxity; UVB contributes to pigment change. None of this says anything about vitality, VO₂ capacity, or neuroplasticity—all of which remain highly trainable well into later decades. In short: skin is an imperfect proxy for health, capability, or joy.
The body also remembers fear. A serious fall primes the amygdala for hypervigilance; the hippocampus encodes context; the autonomic nervous system recruits protective patterns. Over time, deliberate movement and regulated breath can recalibrate those patterns. Ashtanga’s breath‑led vinyasa, steady drishti, and bandha work strengthen interoception and likely enhance vagal tone, supporting a shift from sympathetic arousal toward parasympathetic balance. In that calmer state, graded ocean exposure—choosing mellow conditions, incrementally increasing wave size, and rehearsing safe exits—reshapes the threat response into skill and confidence.
Progress from beginner to intermediate surfing is, at its core, motor learning. Variable practice (different breaks, tides, and wind angles), contextual interference (mixing drills), and feedback schedules (reducing external cueing to build intrinsic feel) consolidate technique. Reading bathymetry and swell period refines positioning; timing pop‑ups with the board’s trim line improves efficiency; risk assessment (rip currents, impact zones, crowd behavior) keeps learning sustainable. None of these adaptations are limited by age; they are limited only by consistency and attention.
Dharmic wisdom across Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism offers a coherent ethic for ageing with dignity and courage. In the Bhagavad‑Gita’s spirit of abhyāsa (steady practice) and vairāgya (non‑attachment), effort is wholehearted while fixation on outcomes softens. Buddhism’s anicca (impermanence) normalizes change in the body and mind, inviting compassion (mettā) for one’s present form. Jainism’s aparigraha (non‑grasping) loosens the cultural grip on youthful appearance; ahimsa (non‑harming) extends to self‑talk and embodied self‑regard. Sikh teachings on hukam (the natural order) and sehaj (equipoise) guide acceptance without passivity: fulfill duty, serve, and meet change with grace. Together, these traditions affirm unity in diversity and uphold self‑acceptance as a shared dharmic value.
Cultural context also matters. In many Indian settings, direct questions about age or appearance signal familiarity rather than hostility; in other contexts, the same remarks read as intrusive or unkind. Meeting such moments with clarity and compassion—naming harm where it occurs while avoiding sweeping generalizations—builds intercultural understanding. It also protects the inner ground from becoming a battleground.
Practically, redirecting attention from aesthetics to capability changes the narrative of ageing. Training for function (strength, mobility, balance, breath control) enhances performance and well‑being. Mindfulness and pranayama stabilize attention and emotion, strengthening the body‑mind connection. Community—satsang in a yoga shala or camaraderie in a surf lineup—replaces comparison with belonging. Thoughtful sun practices (shade, UPF clothing, broad‑spectrum protection) can support skin health without centering vanity. Above all, consistent practice makes confidence ordinary.
What emerges is simple and liberating: ageing is allowed. Wrinkles and grey hair can coexist with strength, skill, and joy. Claiming a place in the surf lineup or on the yoga mat is not a refusal of time; it is an embrace of it. The external world may offer careless commentary; the inner world does not need to amplify it. With dharmic insight, disciplined practice, and compassionate self‑regard, self‑worth becomes tide‑resistant.
We are allowed to age.
Inspired by this post on Tiny Buddha.
