Freeing the surfer’s soul
“You’ve always had a bit of surf in your soul. You’ll be fine.” My father’s last statement echoed in between my ears as I navigated through Denver traffic. It had begun to snow steadily outside, turning the I-70 corridor to complete chaos.
“I cannot wait to get away from this.” I murmured, bringing my thumb nail to my lips, a nervous habit developed in college.
Panama. The word sounded foreign in my head. The idea that there were people, cities, a whole culture attached to it…It intrigued and excited me. In fact, the only thing I’d ever learned about Panama was that they spoke a different type of Spanish and that it was home to the Panama Canal. That was all. Three months ago, my friend Tucker introduced me to the idea of going. Tucker, a tall, awkward boy with shaggy brown hair and a well-intentioned smile had sat down next to me in class, spilled my tea, and asked, “Do you wanna go surfing for school credit?”
Honestly, I was more focused on the misuse of chai than his question, so my facial expression was one of annoyance.
“Wait, what?” I had said, looking up and squinting my eyes. Tucker then began to go into detail about SeaState, a ‘study abroad’ company offering surf trips with a writing course that would earn upper division English credits. “And this class is being taught by Sam George.”
My heart skipped a beat. Sam George? The guy who wrote the documentary “Crips and Bloods”?” My inner documentary filmmaker perked up and I decided, if not now, then when the hell would I ever get another opportunity like this. Fast forward in what seemed like a speed blur and I was fighting the snow to catch a flight to Panama City, and eventually a small surf lodge on the country’s Pacific coast called “Surfer’s Garden.”
I hadn’t surfed in about 13 years. Learning on Texas beaches hadn’t proved to be fruitful and a majority of my time was spent dodging trash through the waves. Suffice it to say that my “surfing skills” were outdated and underdeveloped.
“God, I’m sure these kids have been surfing for years,” I thought as I drummed my fingers against my steering wheel. “I’m going to go and look like a complete idiot. Awesome.”
“Flight 114 to Panama is delayed by an hour. Please be patient and we will try our best to get you on the plane as soon as we can.”
I was roused from my sleep by a cranky voice that came out of the speakers at an alarming volume. I looked around, sitting up quickly. I had fallen asleep and forgotten where I was. I was surrounded by the rest of my fellow SeaState travelers: Jared, James, Tucker, Wyatt and Matt, all from different parts of the country, all attending school in Colorado. Then there was Morgan from North Carolina, tall, thin with long, golden-blonde hair and the cutest smile I’ve ever seen (“Why do all these kids look like models?” I wondered) and another Matt (“But call me B-Roll,” he said with a grin) tan, gold-green eyes and the epitome of a surfer kid. They were joined by Sarah Hughen, the sweet-looking, ginger-haired director of SeaState and our trip leader and Leon Mach, presiding professor and a surfer who was so bronzed by the sun that he almost looked fake. Rounding out this eclectic collection of personalities was instructor Sam George, who had one of the brightest faces I’d ever seen. His eyes seemed to smile before his mouth did, radiating a warm heartedness.
“So these are the people that I get to share this with,” I thought. “Alright, what kind of memories will I make with you all? What will we see?”
As we boarded the plane, I felt my heart jump into my throat. I settled into my seat and gave my fellow passenger a smile.
“Is this your first time to Panama?” the stout, dark haired Panamanian woman asked. I nodded my head, trying to contain my excitement.
“You’re going to love it,” she said, pride evident in her voice.
“I know,” I thought, smiling and sliding down in my chair. “Trust me, I know.”
“Look for the pineapple when we get through immigration,” said Sarah. “He should be holding a big sign with a pineapple on it. Just keep an eye out.”
The airport felt cool and calm compared to the humid chaos that awaited us outside.
“We still have to go get our boards,” reminded Morgan, who had not stopped talking to me about her beloved shortboard since we’d boarded back in Florida.
“What the hell is a shortboard?” I thought as we shuffled along in the immigration line. The guard gave me a blank face as I handed him my passport and immigration slip. He did not seem like the type of person who wanted to tell me what a short board was. A quick scan of my fingerprints, a few questions in broken English (and answered in broken Spanish) and I was now in Panama. Legally anyway.
The white sign emblazoned with a pineapple was connected to a tall, middle aged Panamanian man with dark hair and twinkling brown eyes.
“SeaState?” he asked, pointing at my group, which had trailed behind me.
“Yeah!” I said, probably a bit too enthusiastically. He looked a little taken aback and then threw his head back and let out a rich, deep laugh.
“I like your enthusiasm, my friend. I am Carlos. Let us go.” He motioned to the doors outside.
As soon as we stepped outside, our clothes were immediately vacuum sealed to our bodies.
“I didn’t know humidity went over 100%.” muttered Wyatt, staring at the weather report on his phone.
Driving into the city, Carlos put on his best tour guide hat, pointing out an old building that looked like an old church tower.
“That is Panama Viejo, the original Panama city,” said Carlos, solemnly. “The English pirate Henry Morgan sacked and set fire to it in 1671. He was coming for the rumored solid gold alter in the cathedral. When they didn’t find it they destroyed the whole town. Thousands of lives were lost. Panama was rebuilt where it currently resides.”
A silence fell over the car as everyone tried not to imagine the scene of despair.
”But over here, we have skyscraper shaped like a corkscrew!” exclaimed Carlos, trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t have to work too hard — we were all excited to be here.
We would embark on our five hour drive down the coast in the morning which left us a single afternoon of sight-seeing in the capital and so naturally there was only one place to go: The Panama Canal. More specifically the Miraflores Lock, one of the three locks that form part of the canal, the lake that separates them also called Miraflores. In the Miraflores locks, vessels are lifted (or lowered) 54 feet in two stages, allowing them to transit from the Pacific Ocean port of Balboa in Panama City to the Caribbean port of Colon — or vice versa.
We piled into our designated vans and drove off, dodging traffic throughout some of Panama’s tiniest streets.
“This is an area you do not want to be in at night, eh?” quipped our driver motioning to the areas around us. He was right. Within five minutes we had gone from our nice, clean hostel to streets lined with burned out apartment buildings and littered in garbage. Chickens ran down the sidewalk and ladies in curlers hung out in front of houses, very deliberately ignoring us as they smoked their cigarettes. Small, barefoot children roamed the streets in packs, chasing after errant soccer balls, while old men eyed our van warily, looking like permanent fixtures in their lawn chairs. No, this was certainly not a place you wanted to be after dark.
The first thing I noticed when we reached the Miraflores Lock what a cultural mixing pot the throng of tourists was. People in traditional Indian garments, people speaking Mandarin, people from Ireland, England, China, France. It was a bit overwhelming. Only then did I realize that this canal is considered by so many to be the eighth wonder of the world. It hit me right then that this could be one of the most important things that I see ever. I jogged up the stairs to the viewing pavilion, squeezing my way through all the wonderful people. When I got to the top it was disappointing: I wasn’t tall enough to see over anyone there and it was super hot. Suddenly a spot against the railing opened up. I quickly slid in and was greeted with one of the most beautiful views I’d ever seen. The green hilltops rolled across the sky, boasting of of their vegetation. The once-cloudy sky had begun to clear, giving way to a pale blue that contrasted nicely with the green. The buildings and walkways of the Miraflores Lock looked like they had simply grown out of the grown, born to be there. It was stunning, even without the sight of a gigantic supertanker being lowered 54 feet into the Pacific.
The next day we left for the Surfer’s Garden. None of us knew exactly where our destination was, only that it was a half day drive down the coast. I stared out the shuttle bus window, watching as houses and buildings trickled by. As we slowly began to move out of the city and into more rural areas the scenes went from housing developments to smaller houses, from these clusters of houses to farmland and then to nothing at all for miles. Eventually we left the main highway and wound our way up and over a coastal range, dropping back down to a lovely coastline, the narrow road lined with tiny, neat, colorful houses, every one, it seemed, with clothes drying on a line out front. The clothes looked like colorful fiesta flags, almost as if the people who lived in those houses were celebrating clean laundry.
It was hard to believe that we were here to surf. As we turned off the narrow road onto an even narrower path, we passed fields speckled with white Brahma cattle who looked up with their solemn, brown eyes. We saw a real vaquero, a cowboy, saddled up and guiding his small horse along the side of the road. He wore leather sandals, the Panamanian equal to boots. And suddenly a quick left and then, we were there: heaven.
Or might as well have been. Surfer’s Garden was a tidy plaster paradise amongst a kingdom of foam and sea. And the view. Through the palm trees, where a handful of hammocks hung between swaying trunks, the ocean glittered, perfect waves crashing offshore. It looked like something out of a story book.
Everyone began whooping, and running to change into water gear and get out into the surf. There was no way for me to put it off. Swept up in the happy current I was given a longboard and thrown out into the ocean. And let me tell you, I had one of the best times of my life. The afternoon air was still warm and the Pacific was cool. Getting thrashed about by waves was amazing, especially when you finally caught one and stood up. It was exhilarating, like a drug, but way better than any drug could be. The transformation from the snow to the sea complete…or so I thought.
The next morning, I went out early and rode by myself. Laying on my board, letting the current pull my hand lazily through the water, drifting over small waves and watching the fish and jellies go by, I looked to where the sky met the ocean, to where the waves started and ended their journey. I watched the children on the beach race the waves, playing a game of never ending tag, their squeals of joy reverberating through the morning air. I felt like I belonged right there, in that exact moment, for the rest of my life.
But too many of those moments were almost my downfall. After a quick breakfast I quickly hit the water again for round two: I was oblivious to everything except how enjoyable it all was. This included hours on end in the tropical sun, wearing sunscreen that was not up to the task. I ended the day with more than sunburn, but a mild case of sun poisoning. This made the rest of the trip almost impossible for me as I spent the subsequent days battling blisters, and enduring fevers. But my mother didn’t raise a quitter. And my last few days in Panama made me glad I didn’t.
Our hosts at Surfer’s Garden provided us with the most amazing privilege of being able to give something back to a community that had welcomed us with open arms: bringing the town kids school supplies and renovating their local park. I could live two hundred years and never forget that day — I don’t think I’d ever really seen pure, genuine happiness until then. We repaired swings and mended slides and even painted a gazebo, although I feel like at least 75% of the paint ended up on the kids and myself: I was the one who suggested finger-painting on a grand scale. We communicated not through language, but through smiles and laughter. It made me think about when I’d first started traveling, and time I asked my grandmother why she liked to travel so much.
“Because you get to leave a little piece of yourself, everywhere you go,” she told me. “Even if it’s just with one person. It’s your little piece.”
This park was my piece, I realized. And this was how you leave pieces with people, giving them more than just a story, but a piece of yourself to hold onto.
On one of our last days we boated out to a small offshore island. There we went surfing at a remote beach that was one of the most magical places I’d ever seen. It was all white sand and crystal clear water, the waves were much bigger here, bigger than I was used to, so I opted for body surfing. At one point I was caught in a barrel and it was as if time had stopped. The water gathered around me, forming a perfect tube-like construction. I was right in the middle of a teal colored storm, right before the water broke. It was amazing. I closed my eyes, took in a breath and let it all crash around me.
In a way, I had found that the waves we all enjoyed along this remote coastline could serve as a good metaphor for life. You will have good waves and you will have bad waves and you will have waves that knock you onto your ass. But every once in awhile you find that one wave, and share that euphoric moment, the one that reminds you why you started down this path in the first place. As we left Surfer’s Garden, I felt a sadness deep within me, but it didn’t last long. Because it turned out my father was right: between the sights, sounds and smells of a completely new place, the new friends that came with me and the new friends I’d met along the way, I would leave a piece of me in Panama, I knew. But locked in that one crystal curl I had also found the little bit of surf in my soul. Now it was time to set it free.
— Natasha Tyler Brown wrote this story as part of Sea State’s Panama surf journalism program. Learn more about Sea State’s programs for school credit here.
Here are some more Surfline Study Hall articles to help you navigate the life of a student surfer:
Surf/Study Abroad Opportunities
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