Every maiden outing on the slope is a long and hard lesson in which humility and humiliation are part of the syllabus. In a surfer-like stance, we feigned calmness and chanted to ourselves the fundamental movements demanded by a five-foot-long fibreglass strapped to our beginner’s feet.
Charlie was contorting our limbs into a precarious position, as if we were squatting over an imaginary bonfire. “Lift your back and don’t get burnt,” warned our zealous snowboard instructor at Club Med Kiroro Peak in Hokkaido, Japan.
Knees bent, muscles clenched and hips pushed forward, we bolted over the edge and watched the nose of our board point resolutely downhill before it left earth in a blink. Except, it should not. Our view a minute ago from the hilltop — where a golden sun spilled a molten glow on a robin-blue sky — was immediately replaced by a blanket of white as the ground roared up to greet us with violent intent. After schussing past our classmates and warning them with a few choice expletives, tumbling over and landing face-first in the snow for the 36th time became easier. Because falling gracefully was no longer the point; it was the patience and perseverance to strap on our boots and go again.
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