“Para mango, naranja para pina, banana, avacate, tomate,
cebolla, kalala!”
From the back of a truck bed, fat Nicaraguan men auctioned
off produce through giant loud-speakers.
The assorted fruits and vegetables they advertised culminated into a
song, and I smiled because it was familiar song, one that I hadn’t heard in two
years. It was nostalgic, just like the smell
of burning trash.
The burning trash and strong scent of resin mingled on their
descent through the air in Cristobal’s workshop. A fog of fiberglass dust swirled around him
as he restored old, broken boards into beautiful and functional. I just arrived to Popoyo from another part of
the country, and we were gathered in the workshop discussing our evening surf
session.
“Take the fat twin fin,” Maite advised and pointed into her
shop.
The session signified by the retro fish took me by
surprise. The waves were intense, so I
pictured similar heavy surf, the kind each heart beat was felt, and deep
breathes, a tight grip, and prayer were necessities for each duck dive. The 5 foot 15 second period swell with
onshore winds translated into strong currents and sectioning, closing bombs,
but I trusted Maite enough not to question her.
I pulled the board out from its’ resting place neatly stacked
against the wall with at least 20 others like one pulls a book off a library
shelf. The boards full beauty was revealed
like a glossy book cover compared to its skinny binder buried among thousands.
The fresh world I would explore with this liberated 5’4 had
me frothing. I was a bird in a cage
yearning to fly, and the board was my wings.
I loved how every board has its’ own personality, and discovering the
unique sensation of each board as I flew up and down the face of the wave. Each session and each wave was never the
same making the adventure addicting and injecting me with an urgency for the
sea, for movement. I took a leap of
faith and tucked the board under my arm, excited to fly; to experience its’ world.
We walked to the river-mouth relaxed and excited. The right rolled along, and I flew among the
other mermaids from all different seas of the world. We surfed, encouraged each other, and laughed
together. We shared party waves, and then
Candi and Valentina showed up. I saw
them last two years ago. When I lived
there, I took them and other local kids to a beach break and pushed them into whitewater. Now the girls were 6 and 8, and they paddled
into their own waves and even duck-dived their short-boards. Their dad, a big wave surfer from Argentina,
even had the youngest, Maxima, 3, on a longboard tandem surfing.
Inspiration overwhelmed my soggy bones as I watched the
girls surf and the Lord paint the horizon.
He used varying shades and tones of pastel charcoals, salmon, pink, and
amber. He deepened the hue and blended
the colors in an ever-glowing, changing, flowing scene. I got lost in the light and warmth; like a
long embrace that I wished to stay in forever.
The Bible describes heaven in Revelation 21:23, “And the city has no
need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is
its light.” Deep within my soul I knew I
was lucky to catch a glimpse of His glory here on earth through the sunset, the
girl’s smiles, and the waves. 
I realized that I would rather surf soft, slop with mermaid
smiles and laughter than surf fast, big waves with 30 agro, competitive
men.
“I cry. I sat on the
beach, and I cry, Maite,” Tomoe said in broken English a few days later. Her words triggered anger, and I wanted to
take revenge on anyone who hurt my new friend.
But after further interrogation, we found out that Tomoe had cried tears
of joy. She was crying because she rode
her first wave that was not white-water.
