“Keep your hips in! Tuck them under you!” my nineteen-year-old instructor calls out, motioning with both hands as the Long Island bay laps over his calves. I turn to look at him, the mop of blond hair, Billabong wetsuit outlining his reedy build and wraparound sunglasses reflecting sunlight directly in my eyes.

Bam! My balance gone, my ass smacks the water for the 56th time that afternoon. “Let’s try windsurfing,” Boyfriend’s words echo in my head. “Take a lesson with me. You need to try new things, be adventurous. You can’t just sit in front of a computer all the time.”

“Oh, so I’m the lazy little city girl who’s squeamish about getting wet?” I thought indignantly. “I’ll show him.”

Fast forward to now, with a close-up on my raw hands clutching the waterlogged sail, my calves bruised, knees swollen and feet bleeding from sharp rocks. Ignoring the pack of 14-year-old Junior Olympic wunderkinds shooting past me on their boards, I flop my wetsuited torso onto the bobbing plexiglass, not even bothering to wipe the salty snot streaming from my nose. Awesome. Pushing clumps of matted hair out of my eyes, I wonder what schizoid delusion made me think for a millisecond that this would be anything resembling a good idea.

Hearing an exuberant whoop, I turn to see Boyfriend speeding past on his board, head high, the waves frothing in his path as he glides across the water. Noticing me, he raises an arm and throws me a jaunty wave. My knees buckle, and I welcome the water’s chilly smack for the first time that afternoon since it saves me from having to wave back. Damn him, picking this up like it’s tying a shoe, flaunting his natural athleticism, streaking through the bay while I flail around like a captured eel with tourettes.

Steeling my resolve, I haul myself back up and climb on the board. I will be personally damned if I’m going to let him beat me like this. I haul the sail towards me, forcing a smile – oh I’m having a fantastic time! No problem at all. Windsurfing’s a blast. Right up there with chugging motor oil.

Bam! Balance is an illusion, and I’m submerged once again, letting out a string of watery profanity. Fuck. Why does he always have to be better at me at everything?

Wiping seaweed from my face, it occurs to me that these competitive instincts are a tad irrational. This is my boyfriend, not some third-year associate jockeying for a lunch seat next to the senior partner. We’re out here on a gorgeous Saturday, the water is warm, life is good. Why am I turning it into Billy Jean v. Bobby Riggs?

But then I see him flip his body around the board to execute a complex turn, and logic and reason vaporize. I’m bobbing in the water, marinating in congealed sunscreen and the ingrained need to win (or at least tie), to look equal at all costs. To feel equal, for that matter. Sure, it would make life a lot easier to just submit, play the helpless female, smile winningly and let the men give me a hand or a push before speeding away on their boards like an elite team of trained dolphins. But I’ve never chosen the easy path; why start now.

Spitting out a mouthful of salt and grit, I plant my feet on the board, grab the sail with both hands, swallow the pain shooting through my joints, and pull.