I blame my Hawaiian fantasy on swimwear catalogs. As I mothered three children through Texan summers, my mail carrier brought countless pages featuring jaunty women holding surfboards. These women ran athletically into mouthwash-colored waves. They looked like they’d figured something out, something about how to find meaning in middle age.

I wanted what they were having.

So, when my first child graduated from high school this summer and prepared (happily, it must be said) to leave us and charge into his life, I decided we needed to take a trip to mark the occasion. I hoped that taking an adventure together could cement our bond and make me feel less lost. Before my son had even left Austin, I already missed our casual togetherness: me in a bathrobe sitting at the end of his bed, where he was sprawled after a run or a party, the easy conversation between us. I loved the way the whole family would play card games and chat after dinner.

I channeled my sadness and confusion into travel planning, researching restaurants and surf lessons, using all our Hyatt points to book us a room on Waikiki Beach. Eighteen years before, I’d become a mother. Now, I convinced myself that one perfect vacation with my son could somehow save me from the impending loneliness of his departure.

I still remember telling a friend that I was pregnant. We were in Whole Foods, back when it was located next to BookPeople on Lamar and Sixth. We were buying inexpensive wine for a writer party in Hyde Park, back when you could shoot from Sixth to 42nd and Avenue G in a few minutes—back when unpublished novelists could live at 42nd and Avenue G. I grabbed a bottle of fancy lemonade and confided that my new husband and I were going to have a baby. My friend and I laughed hysterically, the idea of having a baby as crazy as the idea of drinking lemonade at a writer party. I was thrilled and terrified, euphoric and nauseous. When someone ordered pizza to the party, I could smell its arrival before the deliveryman knocked on the door.

It is simple and wonderful to tell the story of my first son growing up: a sweet, blond infant becoming a brilliant student of science, a committed cross-country runner, a star. But one of the many discombobulating facts of parenthood is that by the time you really and truly give up the ghost of who you’d once been (was I really ever the merlot-swilling party girl I see in pictures?) and transform into a person steady enough to be counted on, your kid—if you’ve done your job right—doesn’t need you anymore.

My eldest son makes his own doctor’s appointments, cooks for himself, and tells me about TV shows I should watch and music I should listen to. Our family text stream (which includes my husband and our three children) is the most interesting news I read every day. But on the eve of his departure for college, I turned the same question over and over again in my mind: Who will I be when he is gone?

On the morning of our surf lesson in August, I debuted my new persona, complete with a J. Crew “Swim Dress” and rash guard from the ABC shop underneath our hotel. A giant straw hat with a label proclaiming “ALOHA! Pass it on!” and lots of sunscreen completed the ensemble. Despite my three-coffee breakfast (foreshadowing: I should have eaten a banana), I was able to mask my nerves with a goofy smile, shooting jaunty thumbs-ups in all the selfies.  I wasn’t a morose mother about to lose her son! I was a beachy babe, fun as hell, the mom every college kid would want to come home to—often!

On Waikiki Beach, my son and I met our instructor, Tony Moniz, a legendary surfer on Oahu and the founder of Moniz Family Surfing Academy. After a few practice moves, we straddled our boards, lying on our stomachs, and used our arms to paddle out to a wave break. Although I love yoga, I’m no weightlifter, and I was worn out by the time we got to the break.

Tony turned us around to face the bustling beach. The water was the perfect temperature. Lying on the board, I felt a moment of serenity. My son shot off into a breaking wave, catching it perfectly and rising, his strong legs and innate balance enabling him to ride almost to shore. I cheered for him, but my voice was lost in the wind.

I tried to paddle into the surf a few times, but always fell. My son found wave after wave, but I was stuck. Tears welled up: My bonding attempt was a total bust.

“Hey,” said Tony. “In the ocean, watching your son surf—this is the dream, right?”

“Stop trying to force it, Mama,” he said. “Just wait. Be still. The wave will come to you.”

Wise words. I tried to understand them as a metaphor that would fix everything. At last, my wave did arrive. And lo and behold, I was able to rise to my hands and knees, then got one leg and the other underneath me. I stood and surfed, and it was glorious—but I only had one wave in me, as it turned out.

By the time my son and Tony returned to shore after surfing, I was overheated, hiding underneath my ALOHA hat on the sand. I limped back into the hotel air conditioning and fell deeply asleep. My son grabbed his brother and went back to the beach for more surf time, while I silently admitted that my future as an unflappable surf mom icon was unlikely.

That night, after I indulged in a traditional lomi lomi massage at the Nā Ho‘ōla Spa, we sampled delicacies like octopus tacos at Shor Restaurant. (One of the many joys of raising kids in Austin is that most of them turn out to be gourmet foodies.)

At sunset, we played cards on our balcony barefoot, as relaxed and conversational as we were at home. (I even donned my ratty bathrobe.) Although I’d planned and splurged to make a swimwear-catalog-perfect moment for my son and me, we were actually most comfortable just hanging out, with a cheap deck of cards and a bag of vending machine chips.

I did not know what to do with this realization. My brain, used to planning, whirred in circles, trying to find a new plan of “pain avoidance” to execute.

A few weeks later, my husband and I moved my son into his college dorm and drove home without him, bereft and remembering when we’d driven him home from this hospital for the first time, wondering who the hell had let us leave with a precious baby.

So far, I have been patient, and have not yet zipped from Austin to his San Antonio dorm to pull him into a hug before turning around and driving back. (Although I have contemplated it almost every day.) Maybe middle age isn’t about forcing yourself atop a wave as much as looking around the ocean to see who might need a swim lesson. Maybe it’s being thankful you’re even in the water at all. Just floating, not sinking under—not yet.

No wild ensemble, new hobby, or far-flung vacation waves will change the truth: that time marches on. I no longer have three kids filling our house with shrieking and noise, me in the middle of the fray. Ironically, the most indelible memories of our Hawaiian adventure are the moments I had nothing to do with planning: my sons explaining the rules of Texas Hold’em, evenings watching Seinfeld squished in our hotel room, finding the best shaved ice in Waikiki after trying (most likely) the worst.

Last night, I went into my college son’s empty room. Remembering Tony’s advice to be patient, to let the wave come to me, I resisted the urge to hop in my car and drive an hour and a half to tell him goodnight. On his bedside table, I placed a deck of cards.

Amanda Eyre Ward is a New York Times bestselling author who resides in Austin. Her latest book, The Lifeguards, debuted in April.

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1712 Rio Grande Street, Suite 100 Austin, TX 78701

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