My journey started with an invite to join the Share the Stoke Foundation (STSF) on a surf mission in Peru with the objective of donating surfboards to share that magical flavor of a wave with the local children. Joan Bergmans traveled from Bocas del Toro, Panama to meet Kelly Kingston, the president of STSF, and I on a layover in Bogota, Columbia. We were three surf bums united with more in common than surfing and our sun-bleached hair. We shared a passion to not just surf but to use surfing to make the world a better place by impacting the lives of children; the future.
Upon
arrival, we squeezed into wetsuits in time to discover a wave that reeled and
peeled. We rode the longest rides of our
lives next to a sinking sun. After our
second session the next day I wondered why there were no local rippers in the
line-up. I met surfers from Brazil,
Canada, Australia, a guy from California, but no locals.
“In Peru
the ocean is not seen as a playground, but more like a resource for life. One can work there to find food or also use
it to dump waste,” a Peruvian replied.
And I
agreed the sea was a valuable natural resource, especially in the sleepy
fishing village of Puerto Malabrigo.
Because of the strong current, I read Chicama could happily host 100
surfers, and after surfing there I understood how. As vast and spacious as the desert was, so
was the sea. I learned waves broke as a
reflection of what was under them, but here it seemed the waves mirrored the
desert next to them. All the space made
me feel so small. The point break worked
freakishly well. I could catch a wave
and when my legs gave out and I fell, another wave would break right where I
had been dropped off, ready to taxi me on.
The waves were playful, easy to surf, and if small, perfect for kids. Especially for the kids who lived on the
chilly, overcast street that led to the sea with one of the best waves the
world offered.
In an
atmosphere like Chicama, this project was necessary. Surfboards are the primary necessity for
surfing and a wetsuit secondary. Not
only by donating surfboards could the foundation unlock a new world and hobby
for the kids, but possibly also a future income based on this natural
resource. Serious surfers from all over
the world make the pilgrimage there, opening up a market based on surfing. Jobs as surf guides, boat drivers, surf instructors, surf shop owners, shapers,
surf photographers, and more are created.
The
beach day we planned was scheduled from 12to 3.
The local Peru crew we teamed up with consisted of the Chicama
Surf Resort, Zorro’s Surf School, and volunteers with the Peace Corps. Carlhey Boltz, a Peace Corps volunteer who coordinated the event
reminded us, “In this culture people often turn up late.” When I got out of the water at 10:30 I saw
kids already milling around on the beach waiting. Thirty minutes later we were deep into an
improvised football preparty. The goals
were marked by rocks on the beach, and each moment brought more bright smiles
and children from the pueblo. The sun
even made a guest appearance and decided to stick around for the afternoon.
At noon we divided the kids into groups and explained the goals of the beach clean-up. We sifted through the sand between dry seal bones that mingled with washed up rubber shoes and bottle caps. We collected the trash in black plastic bags for an hour and then met back at Zorro’s surf school for the bar-b-q. Once lined up for food, we counted around 100 children, making this the biggest STSF event to date.
I didn’t
expect even half the kids to participate in the surf lessons due to the cold
water. While we brought some wetsuits to
donate, we didn’t have even close enough for everyone. The kids’ enthusiastic energy and laughter
trumped my expectations when they were all excited to brave the frigid
ocean. A celebration of surfing
transpired with ecstatic, shouting kids matched by words of encouragement and
coaching from the instructors and supporters on the beach. The kids shivered, surfed, and smiled. I felt spoiled and ashamed that I had been
cold in a 4:3 wetsuit.
As in
many cultures around the world, we noticed that women had less
opportunity. We talked about it with
Carlhey, and decided to set aside two of the boards to start a small
revolution; a girls surf club. Carlhey was
willing to head the club and would schedule meetings for the girls. They could
surf with her or go to her to check out a board. Carlhey described other projects she did with
the youth in the community, and she inspired us with the impact she made. I thought about joining the Peace Crops
before, and then it occurred to me that the STSF was the Peace Corps of
surfing.
Three
different professional surfers were in on this project at one point, but as
plans can differ from reality, each had to cancel. Although we were excited to meet them and
work with them, the project was a success without them.
Between
our sessions, we explored the streets in state of intrigue; this place unlike
anywhere we’d ever been. We marveled at the smart street dogs, the interesting
produce, and the sweet taste of the yellow Inca Kola, the whole time being
stared at by curious locals. To them, we
were the novelty. We again ventured
through the pueblo on our final night, and witnessed a festival for their
scared virgin saint. When we spotted
some of the kids we knew from the beach event, the true immersion began. They wanted to hang with us. I was secretly dying to jump on an encaged
giant trampoline with inflatable balls that was one of the festival games. With local kids as playmates I was granted to
access. I jumped and threw balls at the
kids that were as big as them. No longer
outsiders looking in, the kids followed us through the streets and chatted with
us.
I
remembered my welcome from them the day we met.
They embraced me with both arms and each one gave me a kiss on the
cheek. It occurred to me then that the
pros were more for you and me. They were
for people who buy magazines because they see a professional surfers name
gaping across a headline, or buy clothes because the pros are wearing
them. But the kids in Puerto Malabrigo
don’t know who the pros are and they don’t care about any of that. To them, we were pros, and in the end, that
was all that mattered.
One of our last days in Peru we drove to surf another wave about an
hour away. Rusty sand mountains filled
the horizon next to a cloudy, grey sky and dust danced in wild tornadoes
energized by howling winds. The hum of
roof racks set the soundtrack to our conversation about car accidents. We discussed how traveling on the road among strangers
we trusted our lives with was the most dangerous thing humans did every day. Joan recalled a story about when she believed
her life was over when she and some friends barely avoided a head-on collision
with a semi-truck in Norway. Five
minutes later, our lives were spared by our driver’s quick reflexes when a
semi-truck overtook another semi-truck and greedily stole every inch of our
lane. Right at the last moment, our
driver pulled into the desert avoiding the collision as the huge truck stormed
past, and we were reminded of our mortality.
It is my own mortality that begged me to consider the spiritual
realm, and I found answers in nature all around me. My favorite verses in the Bible talk
about how God revealed himself through nature.
There are countless verses where God is personified by the powerful sea
and my favorite verse is the second verse in the Bible, Genesis 1:2. “And the spirit of God was hovering over
surface of the waters.” And I heard
God’s voice whisper and thunder over the waves.
Most surfers were halfway there, because one of the first things you
learn and have to accept is that you are operating in a natural force much
stronger than yourself. Surfers are
deeply connected with nature and the ocean, and most would agree that surfing
is a spiritual experience. Surfing
naturally suggests a spiritual quest.
“He
brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in
me.” – 2 Samuel 22:20. He rescued me
time and again and drew me close through the waves, his liquid arms, and I felt
his love pursuing all those around me.
I am thankful for my time in that spacious place. I treasured the unexpected and intimate
surprises that are unforgettable in travel like the flock of wild pink
flamingoes that soared past us in the line-up followed by a traditional
Peruvian canoe emerging from the foggy horizon.
The man steered the canoe with one tall paddle and maneuvered around the
waves with ease confronting the frigid water and equally cold air without a
shirt. Surprises like when the
restaurant spilled onto the street to greet a human-sized swordfish with
gouging, massive eyes that made it look like a cartoon character and surfing
alone with two of my best friends while perfect lefts rolled by untouched.
