Surfing saved my life.

That’s an over-dramatic way of putting it. Perhaps the more accurate thing to say is that surfing has played an integral role in the working out of my salvation, a grace from God that helps me better understand His grace overall. But saying “surfing saved my life” grabs one’s attention a little bit better.

I’d grown up a skateboarder, starting in the summer of 1996, which put me adjacent to surfing. Over the next four years or so, I’d be in surfing’s orbit in some form or another—either by being in stores that sold clothing and accessories related to both or because my youth pastor, who taught me a lot about skateboarding, was also a surfer and was trying to get me and my best friend to join him some Saturday.

My mom was not a beach person. So I seldom saw the ocean growing up. We lived in Orlando, which meant a trip to the beach would have been an event (at least an hour’s worth of driving each way). But I was very much into things like snorkeling and SCUBA. My first ever job was at a pet store that specialized in fish and I became borderline obsessed with the little critters to the point that I briefly considered ichthyology as a career. Which is all to say that I had a sort of hunger for the sea.

***

I’ve written about it before, but I was a kind of misfit kid. I didn’t really fit in with a lot of people, except my best friend and his little brother (who were practically family to me). I was too “Christian” for a lot of the cool kids at my school (even though it was a Baptist school), but also too alternative and grungy for the youth group set at the time. I fought with school administrators almost every day and openly rebelled against much of the fundamentalist elements in our church. I got really good at “code-switching” when around certain groups, only really feeling like myself when I was with friends or alone at home.

During my junior year of high school (second-to-last year before graduation, for those readers who might have a different school system) I got kinda tired of fighting with everyone. I watched Office Space for the first time and it opened my mind to a completely different way of thinking: not giving a shit. I decided to just do what I wanted to do. And I decided, after winter break, that I wanted to play baseball.

I worked hard. I carried a baseball with me everywhere like I was Pistol Pete and his basketball. I was throwing and catching after school, going to batting cages. I was hitting solid line drives off the 90 MPH pitching machine. But, I did not make the cut. I have my suspicions about this (my mom worked for the church of which my school was parochial and there had been long-simmering tensions between the two institutions; none of the church staff kids were picked that year). Regardless, this turned out to be a God-send because one day I was skating at the church and my best friend shows up and tells me that he and Eddy (our youth pastor) had gone surfing together and that it was awesome. He told me “my dad is going to take us to the beach tomorrow, you should come.”

That day would have been the date of my first baseball game had I made the team.

We drove to New Smyrna Beach, rented long boards, and waded out into the freezing cold water. I was in a wetsuit (I was taking SCUBA lessons as part of a Marine Biology class, so had acquired one as part of this, thankfully). I don’t remember much about the conditions. All I remember was taking the board to the white water and trying to catch whatever was breaking. New Smyrna, at high tide, has a long flat section of shallow water (which makes it ideal for kids playing at the beach and why it’s a popular family spot) and so I was pushing off the sand and into white water.

I’ll never forget standing up for the first time. The wave was maybe shin-high, and I was basically going straight toward the beach. But the speed and the simple fact that I was being moved by a small amount of water shifted something deep in my mind. I wound up getting hit by my board later that day, which also left an impression (both literally and figuratively):

there was something much bigger than me out there.

***

I was an angry kid. Apparently this is not uncommon for young men who grow up without fathers. My dad left my mom as soon as he found out she was pregnant with me and I never met the man (he died in July of last year). I don’t consider myself someone with “daddy issues” or whatever. But I do agree with something Donald Miller writes about in his book for guys who grow up without dads, entitled To Own A Dragon, where he notes that fathers (or father-figures) are key in helping young men learn to channel their aggressions and frustrations. We have a lot of testosterone, which is necessary for our development, and it begins to mess with us in our teenage to young adult years. Someone who’s been through it can help us navigate the path. I did not have that person.

I had a bunch of anger pent up and I took it out on authority figures, or on people that I felt were hypocritical. It often felt like the world was out to get me somehow. Plus, I was smart in a way that didn’t quite fit with my Baptist school environment (I excelled in creative pursuits; I was also quite good in history and Bible, which did afford me some accolades, but I hated doing homework and so my grades did not reflect, to the school’s eyes, my abilities). I was a self-centered little snot who thought he was smarter and better than everyone else around him. I did not realize it at the time, but I needed to get my ass kicked around a bit, on a kind of spiritual level.

***

One of my favorite surfing stories, one that has woven itself into the fabric of our shared mythology, is the story of Greg Noll’s last wave. The short version of the story is this: during an immense swell that hit the Hawaiian islands during the winter of 1969, Noll paddled out at Makaha (in defiance of law enforcement) and caught what people have said was the largest wave surfed at the time. Noll, known for his bombastic nature, allowed the size of the wave to get bigger in the retelling: first 50 feet, then 70, and so on. Regardless of the size, what’s true is that Greg Noll caught this wave, came in, loaded his board onto the roof of his car, and never surfed again. He continued to shape surfboards and be part of the industry. But he never paddled out again.

There are numerous interviews about this. The reason Noll gives for quitting surfing was that he had reached a point in life where, in his own words, he was begging God to send him a wave that he could not ride. He challenged God and God answered. He said that that wave humbled him and made him realize that he could not continue down this path anymore. Surfing was going to kill him because he did not know how or when to stop. Until that wave made that decision for him.

I love this story because it feels true to my situation. For Greg Noll, it took an eternally-growing wave to put him in his place. For me, it took an ankle-high roller.

I learned from that tiny wave that I was not the center of the universe. I would come to learn that I am a recipient of God’s grace, surfing the waves He sends.

***

That day of surfing set me on my path. I caught a wave that I’m still riding. If not for surfing, I would not be who and where I am today. Surfing would teach me about humility and God’s grace. It would also become a deciding factor in where I went to college, which would put me right in front of the Episcopal parish that would reignite my Christian faith after a few years of faltering. This would, of course, lead to my call to the ordained priesthood. It would also predispose me toward Hawai’i, the birthplace of surfing.

It was in March of 2000 that I first surfed. And it was in March of 2020 that I would begin my life in Hawai’i. There is a fairly straight line between those two points.

Had I remained an angry young man, I might’ve gone down a similar path as my dad. But God had other plans in mind.

So, yeah, surfing saved my life.

***

The Rev. Charles Browning II is the rector of Saint Mary’s Episcopal Church in Honolulu, Hawai’i. He is a husband, father, surfer, and frequent over-thinker. Follow him on Mastodon and Pixelfed.

NOTE: The header photo is the only known close-up photo I have of myself surfing. It was taken by my friend Kurt probably in the summer of 2004 when I lived in Fort Pierce Florida. I’m surfing a kinda busted Yater Spoon that I bought on the cheap from Spunky’s Surfshop, a board that would also play an important role in my spiritual life, which I’ll write about some other time.

#Surfing #Spirituality #Christianity #Jesus #Theology

Today I had an off day of surfing.

The wind was stronger than expected. It was kind of crowded for my spot. Waves were wrapping from the West and peaking, breaking almost perpendicular to shore.

When I first arrived I said a little prayer “Lord, if you want me to surf, give me a parking spot.” I drove around and, what do you know, a really nice spot near the showers opens up. As soon as I get out of the car I feel the breeze briskly picking up speed, starting to blow side-shore. I wasn’t feeling it. But the late-morning was beautiful, a classic looking south shore of O’ahu kind of day. So I grabbed my camera and took some photos of the sun glistening off the water, Diamond Head in the back ground, people paddling and swimming in the foreground—a photo that could have existed over a hundred years ago. Took close-up photos of the rocks, testing out a 25 year old digital camera I got for Christmas, to replace an exact model I had short-sightedly given away years back.

I return to my car and stare at the water. An uncle next to me is gearing up to paddle out. Another uncle, his friend, comes over and they start talking story. I decide to call it and make my way around toward the driver’s side.

“Eh! You going out?!” the other uncle says.

“Nah. Too windy.”

“Can I have your stall, den?”

“Sure.”

“I come back. Get one brown SUV. Eh watch my water bottle while I go gettum.”

As he leaves his water bottle on the curb and walks away I look at his friend and I joke: “he’s very trusting. Gotta watch out for these haoles you know!” I say with a smile. “We known for taking things.”

“Eh,” the first uncle says with a dismissive tone. “All kinds of people can do all kinds of things.”

We get to talking. Richard is his name. I’ve seen him in the water before, but he usually paddles out shortly as I’m heading in. Today I’m at the spot at a later time. He urges me to go out.

“Too crowded. Plus I told your friend I’d give up my spot for him.”

He dismisses this and tells me it’s good and I need to go out. Eventually the brown SUV comes rolling around. I give shakas and say goodbye as I drive away. About five cars down I see another car pulling out. As I drive past I can’t shake the feeling that this is all God’s way of telling me that I need to paddle out. So I loop around and pull into the other spot. This one is actually better because it has more shade. I pull down my 11-foot glider (pretty much my exclusive board for the past three years), sunscreen, wetsuit vest zipped up. And I walk over to the cut between rocks where I can paddle out. I see Richard and I tell him that he convinced me to change my mind. He gives a loud approval.

I make the paddle in good time. The crowd thinned a bit in the interim. Waves have power. I see a few familiar faces, folks I did not expect to see in the water because they’re usually out at my normal time. I see a wave on the horizon, taking shape. I whip my board around and paddle. I feel the momentum taking me so I hop to my feet. The wave is beginning to break in front of me, so I go to fade left and surf on my back-hand. But there’s no face there. The wave is a strict right. So I fade back to front-side and try to get into it. I squat and begin scooping at the water, hoping to pick up more speed, but no dice. So I paddle back out, chuckling to myself.

After a while I see a set forming on the horizon. No one seems to be going for it, so I spin around and start paddling. I easily catch the wave and drop in, going right. I squat a bit in the face and then stand to adjust my position, dropping down the face in order to carve my way back up. But I see that it’s walling up too far ahead and is going to close out. So I fade back left to see another closing section coming behind me. So I turn to go straight and ride out the whitewater. But I get caught between two breaking sections, the foam engulfing my board and I feel the force underneath me. I get knocked off my board and plunged under the foam. I feel the chaos of the colliding waves rolling over me and I surrender to the current. Once the wave fully passes I surface. Another wave is breaking, but I have enough time to take stock of my surroundings and know that my board has made its way toward shore, pretty far from my location.

So I start swimming.

At this point I should probably note that I prefer to surf without a leash. Unless it’s particularly big and/or crowded, I’ll forego having a urethane chord dancing about my feet. Leashes can give us a sense of false security. They can and will fail and so we need to be prepared to swim when that eventually happens. Plus, leash-free surfing forces one to be more intentional in their surfing, as well as cognizant of one’s board.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a long swim for a board. Since I’m wearing a wet-suit vest, I have some buoyancy and I have better results from flipping on my back and kicking my way toward my board. I hold my breath and descend under white water, wait for the roll of the wave to wash over me, return to the surface, and then kick my way again.

There’s always a threat of panic in the back of my mind when I have to swim for a board. I’m pretty far from the beach where I surf and there’s a lot of water. Also infrequent tiger shark sightings. But I keep myself calm. Eventually I see that an off-duty lifeguard who surfs my spot has retrieved my board. I thank him and grab it. I bob on the inside, considering the time and effort it would take to get my leash. Nah. I’ll paddle back out.

As I’m nearing the outside, I see the lifeguard wipe out. His big yellow board is bouncing among the whitewater, making its way to shore. He, too, is not wearing a leash. So I turn my board around and grab some whitewater and make my way to where his board is bobbing on the shallow reef. I grab it and start paddling in his direction. He gets it. I tell him we’re even. We both laugh and paddle back out.

By the time I make it back outside, I’m getting tired. I tell one of the uncles I know that I got my swim in for the day and he laughs. The wind has significantly picked up and is blowing almost onshore. After a time I see another wave making its way toward me. It’s mine. I paddle and begin to make the drop a bit later than I was expecting. So I grab the rails and decide to ride it on my belly. The speed is unreal. I’m constantly on the verge of being rolled over, but I keep my composure and let myself fly toward the beach. I decide that I’m not about to paddle back out. This will be the ride, for what it’s worth.

The wave peters out in the shallows of the reef. The tide is nearly dead low, which means that I’ll have to be careful not to let my fin hit anything.

I’m a good surfer. I’ve been at it for 26 years. I get long nose rides on the well-formed South Shore faces. I drop in and run my hands along the face of the waves. I’ve even garnered compliments for my ability to hit the lip with an 11-foot board, on occasion. I’ve shaped boards, ridden a variety of designs. I know the mythology and the legends. I know surfing inside and out.

And I still have off days.

Blessed be the off days.

That saying came into my mind as I carefully paddled over the shallow reef. A large honu (sea turtle) popped its head up next to me. “Hey, cuz!” I said. It swam directly under my board.

This past Sunday we heard Jesus give the Beatitudes. There’s a tendency to read the Beatitudes as Jesus giving us a list of rewards: “be a peacemaker, get a blessing; put up with grief and persecution; get a blessing.” But Jesus is actually saying that peace-making, grieving, being persecuted, being poor in spirit, etc. are themselves blessings. In the Greek language that Matthew’s gospel was maybe first written in, the Beatitudes are in what’s called the “indicative mood.” Meaning that the blessings are indicated by the other stuff. The blessings aren’t rewards for doing certain things.

This idea translates broadly. An off-day of surfing is a blessing, if I choose to see it. Blessed be the off days, because they help you appreciate the better days. Or, Blessed be the off days, because they make you a better swimmer.

I didn’t get to have a morning of beautiful glides on my huge board. I didn’t get to run to the nose and hang ten on a perfectly groomed wave face. I didn’t even get to drop in while squatted down, feeling the cool water with my fingers as I experience the thrill of dropping into the face of a wave and setting myself up for an elegant bottom turn to set my rail and just… go.

Nope. I got wiped out. I swam a lot. I got skunked on wind-blown waves that were both somehow mushy and strong.

But I got in the water. I learned that I’m finally mature enough to appreciate even the days where my surfing kinda sucks.

Blessed be the off days, indeed.

***

The Rev. Charles Browning II is the rector of Saint Mary’s Episcopal Church in Honolulu, Hawai’i. He is a husband, father, surfer, and frequent over-thinker. Follow him on Mastodon and Pixelfed.

#Surfing #Reflection #Ocean #Theology #Jesus #Church #Hawaii #Oahu