I learned to surf as a kid in Ocean City, NJ. When the owner of a local surf shop encouraged me to enter a competition, I took his advice. Much to my surprise, I won—and was hooked. I came to love the peaceful sensation I had as I sat on my surfboard scanning the horizon for the next set of waves. Between the ages of 16 and 32, my passion took me from New Jersey to San Diego, Costa Rica, Barbados, Portugal, and Brazil—always in pursuit of that meditative feeling and the perfect wave.
In the summer of 2009, when I was 32, my quest came to an unexpected halt. I remember waking at 5 a.m., grabbing my surfboard, jumping on my bike, and setting off for the beach. I arrived just in time to see the sun rise. After inhaling the crisp morning air and listening to the roar of the surf, I waded into the water up to my thighs, then belly flopped onto my board and paddled over and under the crashing swells. As I waited for my first wave, I reveled in that familiar blissful state. But when the wave came, I couldn't stand. With each subsequent wave, I kept falling as if slipping on ice.
I finally gave up and returned to shore. When I mounted my bike, I stumbled and fell backward and hit my head. This was puzzling: Normally, I could do wheelies and ride without holding on to the handlebars. Now I couldn't even get on the bike. Later that summer, I stumbled while walking into the bathroom one night. I felt woozy and grabbed the doorjamb to stay upright. Something was wrong.
After a series of visits to neurologists and a battery of exams, including a genetic test, I was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia 8, a rare inherited disorder that affects movement, balance, and coordination. Now my problems with surfing and biking made sense.
In reading everything I could about my disorder, I learned that it's important to develop a hobby. With surfing and biking off-limits, I developed a variety of new pastimes, including woodworking, painting, writing, and bird watching.
When I immersed myself in these passions, I hoped to reclaim that Zenlike feeling I had when surfing. As part of this search, I visited the Cornell Lab of Ornithology in Ithaca, NY, where I saw a photograph of a pileated woodpecker. The more I learned about this marvelous bird, the more intrigued I became and the more determined I was to see one in its natural habitat.
On a later trip to Ithaca, I got up before sunrise and shuffled through my friend's apartment with my cane, collecting my map, coffee thermos, and binoculars. Instead of loading a surfboard into my van, I loaded an all-terrain scooter and headed to the woods. After parking, I set out on a trail beyond the Cornell lab. When I had walked some distance on the path, I came to a viewing platform, where I settled in for my vigil.
As I sat listening to the sounds of the woods and scanning the trees for the woodpecker, I suddenly felt it again—the serenity that had been dormant for so long. I wasn't bobbing on a surfboard in the ocean waiting for that perfect wave; I was sitting on my scooter in the forest waiting for a pileated woodpecker. Yet I'd recaptured that sensation of joy.
Moments such as the one in the woods reassure me that when I focus on what I can still do, I can thrive in my new reality.
Kevin Cook lives in Cherry Hill, NJ, where he’s a member of the Camden County Historical Society, which strives to preserve local historic sites. He’s also co-author of Along the Cooper River: Camden to Haddonfield. In addition, he advocates for beach access for the disabled community. As often as he can, he searches for the elusive pileated woodpecker.