Walking on Water

I was paralyzed with terror. I lay on my board, ready to catch the perfect wave, trying to recall the moves we had learned on shore, trying be brave. The six foot swells were huge and powerful, clear and bluer than the sky. They rolled toward the dazzling, white shoreline without any regard for me. I was in the ocean, on a rented, red surf board, in a foreign country, without anyone to rescue me; and I felt intensely alone.

It had been my idea to bring my brother out here for surf lessons. I had chosen Coolangatta beach after taking recommendations from several friends. I had rented the little white Corolla and driven an hour and a half. I even sweet-talked the budget rent-a-car guy into letting me use a copy of my license instead of the real thing. (my kids lost it, and the new one is coming soon.) I took a friend up on an offer to watch MJ, and we had set out at 6:45 this morning. Surfing looks amazingly cool on t.v. and, in my mind, I am pretty cool. Everyone who is "pretty cool" should definitely surf, especially if relocated to Australia for a few years. I had wanted so much to come and try surfing. Why, then, was I so afraid?

When I was a little and not-so-little girl, I remember being afraid. I was afraid of my shadow, the gremlins under my bed, and the bigfoot that had come all the way from arkansas specifically to hide in my closet. (I wonder how I convinced my mom to let me watch that show?) I felt intuitively that the world was not safe, and thus, that sharks could swim through drainage pipes to swimming pools, and that gnarly trolls really did lurk under bridges. I was afraid of the dark and ghost stories and burglers, of bears and wolves and bad men who lived in dark caves (think Tom Sawyer). As I grew older, I began to cherish my collection of fears, as if each was a truth. A collection of fears is a dark thing, like a bunch of jars containing dead animals on whom lab experiments have gone wrong. You can't keep a gross collection like that hidden forever, especially if you are occasionally adding to it.

Shortly before moving to Australia, I started to work on clearing out my fear collection, mostly because it was exploding out of the containing room and contaminating the important areas of my life. Looking through all that cherished garbage was hard and discouraging work, so I confided in my husband and friends, read my Bible more, hired a shrink, and a doctor who believed in Zoloft-- for a time. One by one, I have been tossing out those ugly old jars that I had cherished so much. I am totally committed to replacing them with a collection of shiny truths.

And yet, with all my theoretical commitment to living in truth, as I lay on my board, those ugly old jars of fear that I had thought I had thrown out kept popping up in my mind. "You aren't really a good athlete. You aren't strong enough to surf. If you can't do it perfectly, don't bother. Everyone will laugh when you fall. Was that a shark? " I took a breath, and in my mind, I started to chuck jars and collect truths right there on the board, alone among the massive waves. (to myself) "I am a pretty good athlete, especially considering that I am 31 and have three kids." Throw the first jar, Elissa. "I am strong enough to do most things decently, and only God is perfect." Jars two and three are airborn. "Whether people laugh at me or applaud me for hours, the opinion of others doesn't matter." Chuck the fourth, girl. "God loves me, and everything that comes to my life will be for my good. If that means a shark, bring him on. I wonder how he'll like it when I make a necklace from his teeth."

As I launched the last of those poisonous thoughts, the instructor, who had been nearby all along, gave me a push. "Go! get up! You can do it!" he shouted, cheerfully. I took a deep breath and I pushed myself up. I stood on the board and I stood on the truth, and I rode my very first wave to shore, no longer afraid to walk on water.