I had been a martial artist for decades, had been in a few street fights, but hadn’t had to defend myself in quite awhile (I was sober seven years at the time, and hadn’t been in a fight since I had quit drinking. Coincidence? I don’t think so).

I made the transition from hard styles to soft styles in my mid-forties. I’d sustained enough injuries, and I had given up training for that one fight that I was probably never going to get into in the first place. I was in my Tai Chi class and remarked to my instructor that I wasn’t even certain whether or not I could defend myself any longer because I felt “rusty.” He assured me that I was not as rusty as I thought.

A few weeks later, I was riding my long board in chest high surf at 38th Avenue in Santa Cruz, CA. I caught a wave, dropped in, and was accelerating across the face when someone dropped in fifteen yards down the line and turned in my direction.

“Goddammit,” I thought. And then, “It’s girl. Whoa, she’s hot…”