A ship in harbor is safe. But that is not what ships are built for. – William Shedd
We discovered a toy recently called Surfer Dudes, a beach toy designed to be thrown beyond the breaking waves and then surf its way unassisted back to shore. Weaving amongst whitecaps, these lively dudes jive and wiggle, then pick up speed until a final curl shoots them right back to your feet. Due to the special rudder design, these wild-haired surfers always pop back up as if the song Good Vibrations was written just for them.
Given that my imagination runs rampant most of the time, I imagined that the typical surfer-slash-rebel would display himself wave after wave. With names like Costa Rica Rick and Sumatra Sam, who couldn’t relate to these chill, beach-cultured characters, braving the ocean alone, who seem to be always ready for the next joyride?
Countless times, my grandsons and I hurled our miniature Rastafarians out just past where the last wave line was about to crash. We expected them to get swallowed up in the froth and taken down into the gnarly depths, but Sam and Rick landed flat, popped back up on their board every time, squared off on a three-footer, zigging and zagging down the half pike.
But at the risk of sounding like a California commercial for dreadlock wax, our washing cycle was about to hit rinse. One of our over-zealous tosses apparently crossed the threshold of what Sumatra Sammy could handle. We watched several waves roll under him while Sam sat motionless, an oxymoron for surfers. Another slow wave rolled in, but the current’s pull sent Sam, frozen, a few feet further away.
“He’ll catch the next one,” I assured both boys, but by then Sumatra Sam was pointing the wrong direction, staring at the sun, or maybe staring out to sea for Wilson and Tom Hanks.
“Why didn’t you swim out and snatch him while you had a chance?” You ask.
This may be a good time to pause the podcast while you take a moment to laugh yourself silly. Ok, ready? Well, really, I was afraid of swimming out fifty feet to rescue Sam for fear of getting eaten by Jaws…or his sharky shark friends that circle beneath. (Just hit the play button when you have stopped laughing).
We boys did have a moment though when we thought Sam might turn it around, and if nothing else, express his loyalty by paddling back in. We noticed a hint of a smile, a wry upturned lip we caught in the last rays of the afternoon sun, but alas, he had crossed into uncharted territory for a toy surfer, and now set his sights for Cuba or perhaps a rescue by Greenpeace.
We could not even muster a solemn goodbye, still thinking by some miraculous lunar pull, Sam might catch a rogue wave and return to us. Instead, we were awakened out of our trance by a fast walker in a tortilla sized hat whose support dog, driven to insanity, was drinking salt water out of the Atlantic Ocean.
Since our return home from vacation a couple of weeks ago, I find myself imagining just where Sumatra Sam is right now. Did he end up back on shore for some lucky kid to discover? Is he still out there drifting in the Sargasso Sea, looking into the stars at night for a new compass, or is he looking down through layers of an ocean ecosystem that supports the only blue planet in the universe?
In spite of the playful intention of our toy, perhaps you can imagine how Surfer Dude has become kind of a symbol of a sojourner for me, a man who is thrown into the world on a trip to find his soul, and where life will take him. Even though Sumatra Sam is just a piece of plastic, there was a sad feeling that crept over the boys and I thinking Sam was going to spend too many nights out there alone with no one to talk to, nothing to eat or drink, and perhaps little hope of ever returning to his home. You can say I’ve gone off the deep end, that allowing for these kinds of thoughts are a kind of madness, but the instant when Sumatra Sam finally disappeared from our binocular view, we could not muster any humor from the situation and had to accept that he, like us, had to face the horizon sometime.
Is that him, or is that us out there waving the Shaka sign? We all know that sometimes it takes an ocean of emptiness before we are willing to risk wading in beyond knee deep. There we may find that the best journeys are always the ones with a loose definition of destination, where our discoveries are mysteries, and where the bottom is no longer visible.
“Well, would you look at that?” I asked. “Does your dog always drink from the ocean?” But the guy in the ridiculous saucer-size hat just kept walking, looking out to sea himself, forlorn and vacant, as if he’d missed his chance in life. Our surfer buddy, however, our little homey home slice Sumatra Sammy was looking back over his shoulder at us from fair winds and following seas, on the starboard reach of Pura Vida, and his next best life.
For my loyal listeners, I will be working on a book until September, so dive into your treasure trove of forty episodes here at Knee Deep. Until then, have a great summer and as always, don’t forget the “m” as in MORE please!