Surfing is a sport for Peter Pans.
And the ocean is magical.
Still, a lot people don’t believe that.
But I will never stop.
I remember this time in seventh grade.
I went with my friend to visit the adoption counselor she was assigned right around the time she started wanting to know her birth mother.
We were really into Buffy The Vampire Slayer and vampires, so we told the appointed counselor we believed in them, just to see what she’d say.
She told us how she’d heard stories of ghosts at The Beach House restaurant down the street; flying around breaking the plates at midnight when the workers were cleaning up.
I remember picturing how the plates would be the only things you could see. How they would gleam before they smashed into thousands of pieces against the cupboards. How the ghosts would have secrets between each other like my friend and I did.
The counselor could have told us that supernatural things weren’t real. She could have made my friend talk only about her feelings related to adoption. She could have referred us to a specialist. But she didn’t.
I like to think she was a believer in believers.
When I’m surfing, sometimes I forget everything except for being.
The feeling of a good ride, like the ones we’ve had over the past few days, washes over me like a white-wash hurricane of all the best emotions.
And that feels magical.
No one can know everything.
There is an undeniable unseen world.
So maybe there are vampires…and mermaids.
Surfing reminds me of the magic in the world.
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