on surfing
The alarm clock sounds it ever waking noise. While eyes still closed, a heavy hand reaches for the button. There in the early morning of one's day it starts. The truck is quickly loaded with the board sticking out of the tailgate, and PCH is starting to warm to the sunrise. The best days are when you pull in to the lot and only a few of the locals are parked and no sign of them lingering to get in the water. The smell of salt in the air, a cold breeze presses your face as the wetsuit suctions onto your body.
I think every surfer has his own way of entering the water on any given morning. But once they are wet they all sit straddled around their boards, afloat. Their heads scanning the westerly horizon. They may sit straddled for a time bobbing among the inside swells, waiting. Then, once that horizon starts to grow, you'll see the first surfer lean forward and start to paddle into position. Leaning back he quickly turns his board around and climbs forward to start the dogged paddle to match the speed of the coming swell. The wind starts to spit at you as you feel the back end pick up. This is the moment you could ask any surfer to describe and they can all detail the next few seconds with ease. The speed builds up from below your feet. There just out of your reach behind you comes a roar that is unlike any other. It is a fearful roar, but a welcomed one. There in that fraction of your life, words jumbled on his page, cannot efficiently sketch the emotions as you ready yourself for the ride.
Every wave is surfed different from this point forward. Some carve and slash, some line up and walk forward, and still others simply race the deafening roar behind them.
The peak of it all for me, is not the above but when all is muted by the rolling inside waves and that horizon is flat lined. Straddled on my board, I look up to the pastel sky painted by the rising sun. I know my God is more faithful than waves, more beautiful than the sunrise. I surf in worship to Him who loves me.
