The Quiet Power of Ocean Commutes: How Surf Travel Teaches Patience, Presence & Purpose

There’s something magical about the journey to the surf. Not the moment you drop into the wave, flashing across its face-but the hours before, when you sit on your board in open water, waiting. When you cross channels, watch the horizon, feel the swell shift under your body, and find yourself suspended between expectation and possibility. This is what I call the “ocean commute”- and it has taught me some of life’s most important lessons.

The sea doesn’t curve around our schedules. It has its own timeline. And in that rhythm we learn how to move differently-with patience, presence and purpose.

When I first moved to Bali and began chasing waves, I found myself sitting far longer than riding. I’d wake before the sun, pack my board, and cross a channel to reach a reef break. The engine hum, sea spray, early light—all part of a ritual that felt more journey than destination. My board sat under the star‑burdened sky, the sea rose and fell gently, and I waited. I waited for sets. For wind to ease. For tide to turn. I watched pelicans glide, felt the salt sting my eyes, and sank into stillness until the moment to paddle arrived.

In those hours, I wasn’t doing anything. I was being. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just waiting. And in that waiting came insight.

Patience isn’t passive. Surfing demands we sit outside of action—sometimes for minutes or hours—to simply be present and ready. A wave might come, or it might not. The ocean doesn’t guarantee reward for effort. It rewards readiness and rhythm instead. As one surfer wrote: “Surfers are no strangers to hanging around and waiting…” and there’s deep wisdom in that pause. 

On this commute I learned to sync with the ocean’s time. I learned to listen to wind change, tide shift, foam disappear. Out here, urgency softens. The pulse of land falls away. And the only pace that matters is the one beneath you—the swell, your breath, your board.

This practice of waiting became a mirror for life. How often do we rush from one task to the next, compounding stress, chasing something we think we should catch? What if we instead borrowed from the ocean: sat with our boards afloat, trusted the rhythm, and let clarity surface?

Being in transit between shore and break is more than travel. It’s an invitation to mindfulness. With no phone in hand, just salt and horizon, you are stripped of distraction. You become the tide, not the treadmill.

The commute teaches presence: you feel the board rock under swell. You smell the sea. You watch pelicans shadow the water. When the first wave arrives you are ready, open, alert. You look up. You paddle. You ride.

This kind of flow is something you carry off the water too. Because when you wait well, you show up better. At work, in relationships, in your own body. The ocean commute asks of you what life often forgets: stillness, readiness, depth.

When I sat in that dinghy, on that calm sea before dawn, I realised I had a choice. Not just whether to surf, but how to inhabit time. The wave might be perfect. It might not. But the journey there-the waiting, the crossing, the salt‑soaked quiet—is just as sacred.

Why purpose matters here: When you travel for surf, you are deliberately choosing to move toward something meaningful-not for status, not for perfection, but for alignment. You board the boat, you track swell charts, you carry your board. Every action becomes a ritual of intention. It is purpose shaped by movement and salt air.

And when you arrive? You’re ready - not just for the wave, but for whatever it brings. Triumph. Wipe‑out. Laughter. Silence on the water. You show up for the ocean, but you also show up for yourself.

One dawn commute remains etched in my memory: dawn’s light barely touching the reef. The sea glassy. No wind. I paddled out, ears attuned to the swell under the hull of my board. I caught the first wave. It wasn’t big. It rolled in gentle and forgiving. Still, it felt perfect. Because the waiting had stilled me. The crossing had aligned me. I didn’t chase the wave. I met it.

That ride became a metaphor. I’ve carried it into boardrooms, long flights, motherhood, moments of stillness at home. I’ve waited patiently for answers, found presence in empty spaces, and reclaimed purpose beyond achievement.

So when you’re stuck in traffic on the way to a break, or stall in life because the swell hasn’t come yet-remember the board beneath you still rocks. The sea still remembers its rhythm. Patience isn’t wasted time. It’s preparation.

Let your next commute-on water, on road, or in the mind—be your teacher. Let the salt settle on your skin. Let the horizon open in your chest. Sit, float, wait. And when your moment arrives, you’ll show up clear‑eyed and ready.

Because you’ve practised the pause. You’ve trusted the tide. And you’ve learned the quiet power of just being-and then moving.

Want to read more?  See one of our latest blogs - why time in salt water heals more than you think.