Kitesurfing

Guys will do anything for a rush: jump out of airplanes, skate on handrails, ride animals that clearly prefer to be left alone. Boys will spin in circles until they black out and collapse (nature's way of preparing them for keg parties).

Some turn into junkies. You'll find them on the bungee bridge pleading with management: "Come on, man, one more jump. You know I'm good for it."

I live near a kitesurfing zone, where people get their kicks with sky bonnets. Here I found kitesurfing champ Wes Matweyew with his bone-deep tan. Wes is always taking off for Costa Rica or Mammoth or some other place where the X-gamers go to risk their lives. It's a thin line between crazy and courageous.

Wes pals around with his Taco Bell Chihuahua, oblivious to things like cubicles and task forces. He charges by the hour but doesn't actually wear a watch. He knows the hour is up when the next dude arrives.

That would be me.

I myself am not a fan of the wind. To me, wind means fussing with your hair or chasing down papers or that you're in Chicago. Wind stripped the leaves from my patio plant: It killed an artificial tree!

On shore, Wes was easy like a mariachi, but in the water he turned into your driver's ed teacher: "What happens if you lose control? You pull the latch. Can you point to the latch? Good."

Wes even made me wear a helmet, something the social service people have suggested for years. He said that if I complained anymore, there'd also be water wings. So it goes.

Douglas Adams said that it's easy to fly: You just throw yourself at the ground and miss. Turns out that it takes a little equipment: kite, harness, wetsuit, pump, express written consent from Major League Baseball.

Wes explained what all the kite strings do, and while I didn't understand, I did write down his words in the order that he said them. Then I failed the follow-up quiz.

Wes grabbed my shoulders and said, "Your head: Don't leave home without it."

The first two sessions took place on sand, where I spent some quality time on my padunkadunk, then finally graduated to the sea. If I could explain the feeling in one word, it would be "brrr." The ocean looks so much warmer from the car.

If you water-ski, you know about the trapped-in-a-toilet starting position. The difference here is that you're in charge of the boat, which happens to be ripping through the sky, and there is "Jaws" music.

Wes plunked down the kiteboard, and I had two seconds to get situated before the next wave swallowed me whole. BRAIN-FREEZE!

"No problem," said Wes. "You're doing great. Grab my harness."

Funny, the thoughts that show up when you're drowning in ice water. I hummed a 60's tune by Donovan: "Oh, but I may as well try and catch the wind."

Rescuing my board from the rocks, Wes tried again: "Feet in straps. Good. Hurry. Dip the kite. Hurry."

The kite hauled me out of the water as might a Dodge Durango, and for one incredible second I -- whoosh. Face planted.

Wes waded after me. "There's a lot going on here. Don't get discouraged."

I had picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.

The truth is that I did not, technically speaking, kitesurf that day. If you feel gypped, imagine the photographer, the videographer, and the two kids going, "Dude, you suck."

Wes had done all that a man could do without being sainted. At the van, he threw me a towel that smelled like Chihuahua.

"I think you'll go a long way," he said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, because you've got a long way to go."

Wes then charged the ocean and didn't come back till the sun turned gooey on the horizon. I asked him what it was like, and he just smiled. That's the problem with words: They limit you to what you can talk about.

I plan to try again when I regain the feeling in my extremities. By the time you read this, I may be in Mexico or Hawaii or wherever I end up once I disappear from sight.

"Oh, but I may as well try and catch the wind."

The Ventura County has produced an online video for this column.