Surfing, Sort of

His name is Nick and he’s 50. He’s sporting long thin hair, a pierced ear, a nose slathered in white zinc oxide, and a black wetsuit. He’s bobbing up and down in the icy waves, clinging to the front of my beginner’s surfboard—which has me sprawled across it, my face less than two feet away from his. He’s attempting to give me a surfing lesson off the beaches of the Outer Banks, and I’m a slow learner.

A wave catches him head-on and he spews out saltwater. “This is why I’m crazy,” he spits. “They say swallowing saltwater makes you insane. You hear of those folk stranded at sea, drinking saltwater out of desperation, going crazy? Imagining all kinds of things out there that aren’t real?”

“Yep,” I answer, glancing over my shoulder to see when the next wave is coming. These conversations throw me, since they may last for a few seconds or a good handful of minutes before he launches me in front of a wave. “Have you read Unbroken?” I query.

“Nope,” he replies. “Too busy out here in the summer. Gotta pile of books but no time.”

“You’d like it,” I respond. “Guys stranded at sea, desperate to drink the water. What’s your favorite book?”

“Stranger in a Strange Land,” he answers with confidence. “Crazy sci-fi book, came out in the 60’s. Main character was raised on Mars, comes to Earth all ahead of his time, knows too much. Kind of like a Christ-figure, he was. They didn’t know what to make of him.”

He’s watching the waves roll in behind my bare feet as he says it, waiting for the right opportunity. And so am I, in a different sort of way. Here it tumbles, right in front of my face.

“How do you think you’d have reacted if you were alive when Christ did come to earth? ” I enquire. “I worry that I might have been like the Pharisees, all judgmental and high and mighty. But I hope instead I’d be a follower. One of those who knew how much they needed him.”

Another wave. He jumps it with my board, watches, waits. I’m still sprawled, resting on my elbows, ready to paddle paddle paddle at his command.

“I don’t know…” he begins. “I think I’d be curious. One of those outcasts who hung around.”

I roll forward where he leaves off. “I love that about Jesus, that he hung out with the outcasts—the broken people. And the irony is that we are all broken. Some just aren’t afraid to admit it. They’re the smart ones, though, the ones who know they need a Savior.”

He looks me in the eye right as the next good wave approaches, with no time to respond. Pushing my board into position, he instructs me to be ready.

“Paddle, paddle, paddle!” he hollers as he launches me forward. I do, heart lurching into my throat, until I hear his command: “Pop up!”

Hands under my shoulders, push hard, feet jump up and plant sideways, arms out, and…down I go—a tumble and flurry of water and sand and board and person. I fumble for the sandy bottom and untangle my feet from the cord before turning back to sea, dragging my board alongside of me.  Back to the next wave, to try again.

I have a lot of practicing to do. Both in surfing and in conversations about Jesus with people I’ve just met. But I won’t learn how unless I try.

Hope and Be.Longing