Praying for the Surf to Rise (again) on Easter- Pre-Dawn Patrol

First, I must say, the title is in no way meant to be disrespectful or in any way intended as blasphemy. My faith is at the core of my being, and I’m pretty sure my meaning is totally understood where it counts. One’s relationship with God (or non-god, or God renamed) is personal.

It was probably the local police force I was more concerned with as I sped toward the much-anticipated, news-mentioned, online-forecast, facebook-liked big swell. I had my excuse ready. “Can’t you see I have my board on top of two ladders; I’m a working man… Sir.”

Sure, I’d gotten up early (5 am) after I’d stayed up late watching the women’s competition from Bell’s Beach on my now-after three and a half hours on the phone with Dell support, sort-of working sweet, sweet laptop (the keyboard moves at a one stroke/second rate, max- they’re sending a new one, though I have my doubts- typing this on Trisha’s computer).

Perhaps because, after we’d discussed the incoming swell in relation to tides, crowds the day before, and the importance of Faith in this matter, and because Keith hadn’t returned my text (“Y’out?”) sent at 5:30, I was driving a bit faster, my mind a bit more addled and crazed (than usual).

Yeah, I was sure he’d gone out at 5:15, tucking in to wave after empty wave, all the other surf followers (disciples?) waking up, getting ready to cruise a few rollers. So, a few more curves, a bit of noisy speeding through the back street, and… the beach; the parking lot half full.

It turns out, at 6:10 on Easter Sunday, there was a gathering of Believers (not surfers) down the berm from me, singing sacred songs, watching the sun, hidden by clouds hanging on the distant Cascade Mountains. Me, I was looking west… almost nothing.

But I had faith, and soon, other searchers joined me.

Hey, I have to go. I promise to return to this, update on who and what, and fellowship in the parking lot, and on how Keith and Rico and I went out in barely-breaking, tide-dropping, rocks-exposing themselves, offshore wind blowing, waves. Maybe they rose a bit.

Surely somewhere the swell was hitting. As one member of the flock on the beach said, on leaving, and in the sort of tone that suggested we were hoping the mountain would come to us (reference from a different religion- not commenting again on the personal nature of religion), “You ought to go to Neah Bay. Eighteen feet.”

Yeah, well. Later, Stephen Davis, who had showed up in the parking lot, watched a while, then went to Easter breakfast, said, when I commented on how Keith had taken off behind me on several waves, said, with a laugh, “Behind you? How dare he?”

Hey, this isn’t, in my mind, a blog. Still, until I get it all worked out, sometimes it is.

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