I was on vacation in the South of France, in the postcard-perfect village of Les Salles-sur-Verdon. The lake was calm, framed by cliffs and summer light, when I noticed a few windsurfers gliding across the water. They looked weightless, almost unreal, balancing between air and lake.

My first thought was simple: That looks impossible.

This was not part of the plan. We were there for camping, swimming, long lunches — not extreme sports. But my wife, who knows me better than I know myself, insisted I try it “just for fun.” So I booked a lesson for that afternoon.

My instructor was a seasonal windsurfer from Fuerteventura, sunburned, relaxed, the kind of person who makes hard things look easy. He took me out in a small motorboat and introduced me to the basics: how to stand, how to hold the sail, how to find the wind. It felt awkward, unstable, and slightly ridiculous.

And completely exhilarating.

The next day, convinced I had understood more than I actually had, I rented a board on my own to practice. Confidence can be a dangerous thing. A few shaky maneuvers later, I found myself drifting farther and farther from shore. I had missed one small but critical detail: I didn't know how to sail upwind.

I returned to the beach swimming, lying across the board, humbled but laughing.

At that point, I thought windsurfing would remain nothing more than a funny vacation story, a summer experiment filed away with other holiday memories.

But coincidences have a strange way of rewriting plans.