Two summers ago. Kitesurfing. Three miles from the boat. Floating toward rocks with my kite up. About to rip it open and become Tarzan for who knows how many hours.

Okay — days, I’m joking. Mostly.

Let me back up.

How I Got Here

Four years ago I picked up a brand-new sport. Kitesurfing.

I’m a learn-by-doing kind of girl. I fall. I fail. I course-correct mid-air. I barely read the manual.

After many lessons and many wipeouts, I somewhat started going upwind.

If you’re not a sailor or a kiter, here’s what that means. Riding upwind isn’t just a skill — it’s a strategy. You zigzag. You change direction. You find that fine-tuned sweet spot where you go upwind at a consistent speed — but not so upwind that you stall out. You gauge where to stop. You watch for sailboats with long masts. You watch for shallow coral. You make a many small decisions every minute.

Sailors get me.

Green Island, Antigua

Two summers ago. My friends had their sailboat parked in front of the kitesurfing school in Green Island.

My friends are methodical. Strategic. The kind of people who study the wind chart before they launch.

I’m the other kind. I just go.

That day I went downwind just fine. When it was time to come back — I lost it. And I lost the board.

One faceplant and the board was already three yards away. With a kite, you can’t just swim to your board. I tried to body-drag back. The board was moving faster than I was. We separated.

And just like that, I was alone.

The Slow Drift

I was three miles from the boat.

My friend was supposed to have eyes on me. I was way too far for him to see anything but a speck.

The board was gone.

I laid my kite on the water — hoping he’d notice that my kite wasn’t up in the sky anymore. That was my only signal. My only lifeline.

I started drifting toward a deserted patch of land with rocks. I wasn’t going to die. But I was about to rip my kite open and become Tarzan for the rest of the afternoon. Or longer.

It felt like hours. It was actually about thirty minutes.

He finally came looking — because he couldn’t see my kite up anymore. Just like I’d hoped.

He’d been reluctant to come earlier. Because that morning, I had said the most famous last words in adventure sports.

“I know what I’m doing. I’m ready to be independent. I’ll go by myself and come back by myself.”

Humbling. Humiliating. Hilarious in Hindsight.

That day I got to meet my stubborn side.

Rarely. Sometimes. Often. Oh well.

Me being stubborn has brought me to many adventures — and many failures. And many embarrassments. I wouldn’t trade any of them. But I would like to trade some of the lessons in for a less expensive tuition.

Here’s Where Skiing Comes In

Beginner mindset is amazing. Exciting. Thrilling. And just a little bit out of touch with reality.

There may be a long learning curve. Many adventures. Many unknowns.

That’s why you hire an instructor. In any sport. When your instructor says go — you go. You trust the process. You trust your mentor. You trust the progression.

A good instructor is a good student.

I’ve been on both sides. As a seasoned ski instructor, I know the path to the top of the mountain — because I’ve climbed it myself, fallen on every step, and gotten back up on every step. I’m learning to be a better student every season. Which is what humbly makes a better teacher.

My Invite to You

This is your invitation.

Come ski with me this winter.

I’ll hold your hand to the top of the world — safely, in confidence, with a whole lot of laughter on the way. I’ll teach you the progression. I’ll celebrate every light bulb moment. I’ll meet you wherever you are — first-timer, comeback skier, or seasoned ripper who wants to grow.

You don’t have to figure it out alone. I tried that in Antigua. It went poorly.

DM me to book your winter session.

Come to the fun side.

Ski ya later.

— Ceylan