Note: The following was written in January 2024, but the events took place in June 2023.

It was a picturesque summer afternoon. The day’s energy was carried by a mixed murmur of music and banter across the beach. In the heat of competition, barefooted soccer and volleyball players kicked clouds of sand into the air with every kick, lunge, and dive. At a far less measure of intensity, skateboarders and rollerbladers weaved between walking pedestrians as they careened along the concrete walkway.

Friend groups gathered in circles of laid out towels, as young parents dipped their laughing children’s toes in the Atlantic’s chilly waters. Where the waves rolled onto the shoreline, a few girls took turns taking photographs.

I surveyed all this from the end of a concrete pier.

I sighed.

For months leading up to this trip, my mind was fixated on the idea of trying some sort of water sport during my time in Portugal. The options seemed endless: sea kayaking, surfing, and paddleboarding were all viable options. Most appealing to me, however, was the prospect of surfing again.

I went surfing only once before in my life. It was at place called Muizenburg Beach just outside Cape Town, South Africa. I was there on a service trip and decided to join a few new friends in renting boards to go “sunrise surfing.” Muizenberg Beach was said to be one of the best destinations in the world for first-time, beginning surfers.

Despite the favorable conditions that morning, I was only able to stand up on the board twice. But even characterizing those attempts as a “success,” would be generous. That said, they were certainly a pair of thrilling – if fleeting – moments. 

When I think back to that morning, I mostly recall floating in the water with the surfboard straddled underneath me. Beads of water trickled down the sleeves of my wetsuit, as I shivered from the Indian Ocean’s cold, icy saltwater. Yet, despite the chill, I remained transfixed by the silhouetted mountains on the bay’s horizon-line. Up until this point, we’d essentially been surfing in the soft darkness of an early dawn. But then, the sun began to gently spill over the mountaintops and cast its beaming light on each and every one of us who were braving those chilly waters of Cape Town’s False Bay.

To this day, that sunrise surfing moment remains one of my fondest memories.

Six years later, I’ve now found myself standing on the Atlantic shores of Portugal with my subconscious itching to recreate that strikingly beautiful moment. Personally, I identify as a passive “surfing fan,” mostly due to a string of surfing documentaries I’ve seen on RedBullTV. From those documentaries I knew that Portugal was a popular surfing destination, and I was fully committed to the idea that I wouldn’t let this opportunity pass without an attempt of my own.

So I walked back from the pier and onto the concrete pathway, traversing the beachfront known as Praia da Costa da Caparica. I ducked into every surf shop I could find. But time and time again, I was gently turned away with the honest admission that the Atlantic Ocean waters that day was, “like a lake.” It was simply too calm for surfing. 

I was disappointed. With the winds that day, I thought the conditions would have been better. Adding to my disappointment was that while the waves were too calm for surfing, they also looked too strong for paddleboarding – my second water sport of choice.

But I had a vision that I was committed to seeing through.

So I went to another surf shop, and another after that.

My friend Tommy joined me, offering his translation services as needed (which was often). After a series of five or so more shops, each with a dismissal in hand and a recommendation to “try the next one over.” I thought I’d try just one more before giving up the dream.

We walked up to an open-air, beach-side bar. It was built almost like a gazebo, but with garage doors that could drop down during poor weather. More importantly, however, was another small surf shop tucked behind the back-end of this bar. No one seemed to be inside, but I stepped in anyway. Surfboards and paddleboards were hung in stacked rows that ran deep into the narrow walls of the shop.

“Bon día,” I called out, greeting no one in particular.

“Bo día!” a startled response called back, as the shopkeeper stumbled out from between two of the hanging boards.

“Hi, I’m here to see if I can rent a paddleboard,” I said, resorting to English after the initial Portuguese greeting for formality. 

“For how long?”

“Just one hour.”

“Of course, but be careful. The current is strong today.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, as she disappeared into the back of the shop. She pulled out a paddleboard and brought it out. 

“See you in an hour.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Ecstatic, I picked up the board and scurried away. While I wouldn’t get an opportunity to surf, I’ll take what I can get with this paddleboard now in-hand. After all, in recent years I’ve developed an affinity for paddleboarding. It’s just more accessible. 

In part, it’s also because every time I’ve gone paddleboarding it has been at a meaningful destination and time in my life. I first tried it a handful times in Destin, Florida, on a series of spring and summer trips with college friends. At the close of my Peace Corps service in Grenada, I rented a paddleboard to go out on the waters of Grand Anse Beach. A few years after that, I paddleboarded on a family vacation at Hilton Head, South Carolina, which also coincided with my recent accepting of a new job offer in Washington, DC.

So although I wasn’t surfing on this day, I was still beyond excited to be on a paddleboard.

I strapped the anklet on and tossed the board into the water, walking it out past the breakers. By the time I got waist deep into the water, I turned and hoisted myself onto the board.

So much for calm waters that are “like a lake.”

I had to fight the winds from the get-go. Strong gusts rolled the waves underneath the board, threatening my balance. So I remained on my knees, set my hat and sunglasses straight and began paddling. 

I could tell the current was strong, so I angled the board directly against it and vehemently paddled my way out. After several minutes of exertion, I paused to look back: I was far beyond the crowd of sea-bathers now.

I took note of my mental place-marker, my reference point, which was to stay in line with the concrete break-walls. I had reached what I felt was a comfortable stopping point. It was time to try and stand. 

Slowly, cautiously, I put one knee up and one foot down. Then the other. With my hands clenching the paddle against the board for balance, I slowly stood up with an uneasy wobble.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

I steadied myself as I rose, attempting to keep balance and stay above these deep, cool waters.

Finally feeling somewhat stable, I began to gently paddle. Briefly, I glanced toward the coastline as a show of my success – only to realize that sure enough: the current had already pushed me way off course. Suppressing a brief flash of fear, I stuck the paddle further into the water and shifted my weight to turn the board back against the current. It was a feeble attempt to correct my path, as the waves continued their raucous mutiny against me.

Then one particular wave caught me mid-stroke. I raised my arms and leaned to my side, giving in to a brief wobble before delicately regaining my balance.

Inhale. Exhale.

“That was close,” I muttered to myself “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.”

I began to question this decision.

The gravity of the water conditions had sunk in, and I finally accepted the now very visceral reality of already being so far away from my reference point of the concrete break walls.

Meanwhile, the once crystal-clear waters of the shoreline had now become deep, dark waters underneath me.

Inhale. Exhale.

“Well, back on your knees it is, I guess,” I muttered, once again to no one but myself.

I dropped to my knees and sticking the paddle as deep into the water as I could, I propelled myself forward with all the strength I could muster.

Several minutes passed in this exerted effort, with stroke after stroke meaning incremental progress against the current. Eventually, I not only made it back to my reference point, but even went a little beyond it to compensate for the current’s strength.

“Okay, let’s try this one more time and ride the current in,” I whispered to myself encouragingly.

Inhale. Exhale.

Knee up. Foot down.

Knee up. Foot down.

Standing up a second time, I promised myself I would commit to paddling straight back to shore – and accept wherever it would take me, so long as I reached land. 

Inhale. Exhale.

With controlled and measured breath, I paddled toward shore as strong as I could. Periodically, I had to angle my paddle into the water to strategically steer the board in as straight a line as possible. 

In between every third stroke or so, I took quick glances: to the coast, to the horizon, toward Lisbon. 

I tried to appreciate the saltiness of the air. The cool, summer breeze. The hot sun. The opportunity to participate in any water sport, no matter how challenging or difficult the conditions were proving to be.

Before long, my hard work was paying off and I was overcoming the current as I angled my way to shore. The sandy sea floor began to reappear about forty feet beneath me. Then thirty, twenty, and ten. I could now see small schools of fish scurrying beneath the board as wavy ripples of sand adorned the sea floor.

I began navigating the board around the people bathing in the sea water.

I was safe. I made it back.

I grew confident. Comfortable. Relaxed.

When another wave once again rolled beneath my board.

I wobbled.

I waved.

I fell.

Right onto my feet.

I laughed. Out of joy or relief, I’m not sure. But I laughed.

I walked onto shore and shared with Tommy my unexpected adventure.

He expressed interest in taking the board out, too, just not nearly as far as I did. No sense in making the same mistake twice.

Paddleboarding was also new to him, so I was excited about presenting an opportunity for him to enjoy an activity that I’ve certainly come to appreciate for myself.

Responsibly, of course.

He took it for a short paddle, but within a safe distance to shore and mindful of the current.

Then upon his return, his two-year-old son Tychicus took a turn standing on the board with Tommy (and staying on shore entirely).

I think it’s fair to say I learned my lesson that day about appreciating the power of the ocean.

But maybe that’s also what makes engaging with the ocean so fulfilling. Whether it’s surfing, paddleboarding, or simply bathing in its waters – the ocean presents an opportunity for you to channel its energy and be part of something much more powerful than you could ever be.

It also may be the same appeal to paddleboarding, an opportunity to seemingly conquer the unconquerable.

To capture a fleeting feeling of what is an otherwise unattainable human endeavor: walking on water.