Sacred Lessons: Surrendering to the Ocean

Note: the following is an excerpt from Mike’s latest book Sacred Lessons 

A Lifelong Connection to Water

I’ve always had a special connection to the water. From an early age, I always wanted to go to the beach. I’ve always gravitated toward the cool ocean breeze and soothing sound of the waves hitting the shore. From as early as I can remember, the one place where I felt completely safe and welcome was when I was in the water.

Growing up in Ventura, California, my proximity to the beach made it easy for me to spend countless hours in or beside the water. In middle school, and later in high school, I learned to bodyboard, then skateboard, then surf. It became almost like a religion for me. I would try to go to the ocean as much as I could. And although I’ve never really been that good at surfing, it gave me a reason to go to the beach.

From that first moment on, the ocean has been my place of comfort and refuge. A place that I go to when I need clarity, or just a place for me to go to breathe and to get centered. A place where I can be my full and authentic self. And a place where I can go to heal and reflect on myself and my relationship with the world.

Lessons from Surfing

Surfing has taught me more about life than almost any other relationship I have. It’s more than just a metaphor for life, it’s a way of living. Through surfing, I have learned how to endure hardship and keep going forward no matter how tired or frustrated I am. Through surfing, I’ve been forced to get back up even when I’ve been knocked down. Through surfing, I’ve learned how to forgive, and how to let go.

While I try to go to the beach as much as I can by myself, I mostly go surfing with Ron, one of my closest colleagues and friends. And that’s the thing about life, about surfing, about healing—it doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Healing happens in community.

Surfing, and being in nature, is a very intimate and personal endeavor. Water is the great equalizer because when you’re out in the water, you’re figuratively naked and have to learn how to swim by yourself, but also with the help of others. It’s not about how you look or even how much money you have. It’s a dance between a person and the waves. And the only way that you can survive a huge swell, the only way that you can endure the ups and downs of life, is by learning how to surrender.

The Power of Surrender

The act of surrendering is a process of becoming vulnerable enough to trust in the unknown, the unseen, and the sacred energy that connects us to everything. No matter what culture, what spirituality, or what tradition one is born into, surrendering is paramount to our personal and collective healing, restoration, and strengthening of our connection to the cosmos, to ourselves, and to each other.

This is a challenge for me, and for many of us, because we live in a society that wants to control us and push us to pretend that we need to know everything. But the truth is that the more that I let go, the more I surrender, the more I trust that the medicine I need lies within me, the more I will be able to receive the blessings that are inherent within every lesson, every person, and every challenge in my life.

Healing Together

And that is the secret I’ve been learning for the past couple of years. That in order for me to develop a deeper understanding of and relationship with myself, I have to heal alongside others. Despite society telling me that healing is a solo journey, my personal experiences have shown me that the more I can be honest with myself, and the more I can share with those I trust, the more I can make sense of my wounds and the ways I can begin to remember and recover my sacredness.

That’s the reason why, even though I can meditate, do yoga, and surf all by myself, it’s not the same as when I’m with a group of friends. The truth is that my healing and sense of connection are magnified when I’m around others. When I do any of these practices outside in nature, it becomes even more magical and life-altering. And that’s because healing has always been a communal practice. Healing has always been done within the sacredness of the outdoors, with the assistance of our ancestors and the earth’s sacred plants, animals, and nature itself.

That’s why I’m so in love with surfing. Because through the act of paddling out into the ocean and becoming one with the water, I have no other option but to be completely present. I can’t be stuck in the past or thinking about the future. I must be completely in the moment or I risk getting pounded by the waves. That’s why so many of my mentors and elders consistently remind me to let go of my thoughts. They teach me how to quiet my mind so that I can temper my ego and be here, now.

That’s the sacred lesson that nature teaches all of us: that all we have, all we ever have, is this moment.

A Sacred Encounter

On a recent camping trip to spend time with myself and to have the space to write, I was confronted by my fear of being alone. I was confronted by my anxiousness of not knowing where I was going or what I was going to do. And in that moment, I had to put into practice what I “believe.” You see, my beliefs cannot just be ideas or something that I talk about, they must be integrated into my daily life. I have to live my values and trust that there’s a reason why my inner voice was telling me to leave and spend time alone in nature.

On that first evening, I walked by myself to the beach to watch the sunset and give thanks to the Great Spirit for the opportunity, the privilege, that I had to go camping. As I walked along the shore, I saw an eagle in the sky. Eagles are very sacred creatures who represent courage, wisdom, and cleverness. In Mesoamerican mythology, and in many other cultural stories, eagles symbolize listening to your intuition and having the fearlessness to believe that you can accomplish your sacred purpose in life.

As I watched the eagle soar, I texted a video of the bird flying to my beloved friend Juan, someone I admire for his ability to teach our sacred practices to those who have been negatively impacted by mass incarceration and the criminal legal system. A few minutes after sharing the video with him, he texted me back: Good one brotha…enjoying nature and creation! Walk barefooted homie! Feel life ‘cause you know like folks said we ain’t from the left or the right. We coming from the bottom to the top.

Smiling, I immediately stopped and took off my shoes. For the next couple of minutes, I just stood there underneath the sun with my bare feet touching the ground. In that moment, Juan had reminded me of the importance of being directly connected to the earth. He had reminded me of the importance of never forgetting to keep myself rooted and grounded in the wisdom that I could only gain from being outside in nature.

As I stood there with my bare feet touching the warm dirt, I felt alive. I felt I was a part of something bigger than myself, connected to the past, to the present, and to the future. I felt blessed that I didn’t have to pay anything for this healing. All I had to do was simply go outside, take off my shoes, and feel the healing power of Mother Earth.

A Connection to the Past

As I made my way back to my campsite, I began to think about my father. In that precise moment, whether it was because I’d taken off my shoes to let my feet touch the ground, or because I’d gotten to spend time with the ocean, I realized that my father is the reason why I love the water so much. My father is the reason why every time I feel down, every time I feel alone, I go back to the beach.

You see, some of my fondest memories as a child are of me riding my bike alongside my dad on the beaches of Ventura. I vividly remember him throwing our bikes in the back of his pickup truck and driving along the coast. I was absolutely mesmerized by the waves and the way the sun hit the sand and reflected off our bikes. We would ride our bikes for miles upon miles, and I wouldn’t once complain because I was not only at the beach, I was at the beach spending time with my father.

One moment that I will always remember is riding my bike along the water with my father when I was seven years old. We were on the bike path by the Ventura County Fairgrounds and had stopped to listen to the loud music coming from the grand- stand speakers.

As I looked up, I noticed a huge cloud of smoke and pointed to the sky. “Papá,” I said, “what’s that?”

“It’s nothing, Mijo. Let’s keep going,” he replied. Confused, I asked, “But Papá, what’s that horrible smell?” Trying not to laugh because I’d used such a big word at such a young age, my father repeated, “It’s nothing, Mijo. Come on, let’s keep going.”

Not wanting to leave, I persisted, “But why does it smell so bad?”

My father couldn’t stop himself from laughing as he started pedaling away. “Let’s go!” he said.

Years later, I found out that I was smelling the stench of cannabis as I rode through my first ever live concert, listening to the music of the greatest jam band of all time, the Grateful Dead.

It’s this and so many other memories that have cemented my love of the beach. You see, my father isn’t the typical beach guy. In fact, he doesn’t even like going into the water. But nature has always been the place that my father goes to when he needs to get away from the pain of life.

Camping Lessons

Even before I learned how to ride my bike, my father would take me and my brother camping at least three or four times a year. And this wasn’t glamping. Oh no. This wasn’t camping with bathrooms and showers down the road. This was real camping complete with us having to pack everything that we needed in our own backpacks and then carrying them up the mountain all by ourselves. We would spend the entire day walking with these heavy backpacks until we finally stopped and put up our tents.

My father absolutely loved to go camping, because it’s one of the few places where he could just let go and not worry about work or life or anything else. He didn’t have to stress about whether he was going to be judged or ridiculed for how he looked or for who he was. He could be transported back to that feeling of abundance and acceptance that he’d felt as a child playing among the apple trees and orchards in Atascaderos. He could put himself back into a situation where he could relive that undeniable feeling of being loved.

Looking back at it now, camping was a sort of ritual for my father to escape the bustle of everyday life every couple of months. Like running, it provided him with a space to disconnect from the monotony of work and reconnect with his core, his own inner being. And through these experiences, he taught me that being in nature was a powerful way for me to rejuvenate myself for the weeks, the months, and sometimes even the years ahead.

I remember being six or maybe seven years old, camping for the weekend with my papá and my brother in Santa Paula. I remember packing my small backpack and then looking over at my father and saying, “Papá, why are you packing so many things?”

“Because once we’re camping up in the mountains, we can’t come back home to get anything. We have to pack everything that we need right now.”

“Everything? Even my toys?” I asked as only a young, naive little boy would do.

“Michael, you can only take one toy with you because we have to take a lot of stuff with us. We have to take our sleeping bags, our tent, our food, and our clothes for the entire weekend. And Mijo, remember that we have to put everything in our own backpacks.”

“Our own backpacks? But Papá, mine’s too small to take everything that I need.”

And with a smile, my father simply said, “I know, Mijo. Just pack one toy to take with you and we’ll figure out the rest.”

The Essentials of Life

During those precious moments, my father was teaching me about what mattered most in life. He was teaching me that the material items were secondary to having the space and the time to just be with myself and my family. When we went camping, he was adamant about us bringing only the bare necessities, the essentials. No more, no less. And this was an important lesson that he wanted me to learn: that I didn’t need any of the material “things” that I thought I needed to be happy and content.

As I contemplate this lesson that my father was trying to instill in me at such an early age, I think about my relationship with material possessions and overconsumption in general. I think about how I buy things that I really don’t need because for most of my life I’ve struggled to accept my inherent value. I’ve struggled with feelings of inadequacy and of not feeling worthy.

A direct by-product of this way of thinking is that I buy unnecessary things that bring no tangible benefit to my life. Worse, I know that I have become addicted to shopping, which I now realize is a result of my childhood trauma and my not thinking or feeling that I was good enough. Shopping has, unfortunately, become a way to fill a void within myself.

Nature as Medicine

Looking back on it now, I see that my father took me camping because he wanted me to learn that I had everything I needed within myself. That I didn’t need material goods to make me feel whole or bring me a sense of value and happiness. In fact, the opposite is true, and my love of surfing, an activity that anyone can do for very little money except for the cost of a surfboard and wetsuit, is proof of that.

As I reminisce on that childhood memory of feeling that we were never going to make it to the top of the mountain, I remember my father taking my brother and me to the punch bowls to swim and to play in the water.

“Mijo, jump into the water,” my father would say.

I remember timidly looking at the water and saying, “But it’s too cold, Papá,” as I stood on the edge of the lake with my arms crossed.

“Jump into the water,” he would say in an even sterner voice.

And when he said it that way, with that tone, I knew he wasn’t asking me to do it, he was telling me I had no choice but to jump into the water.

Sucking up whatever courage I could muster, and giving my brother a side eye that said he’d better do it too, I jumped into the water without thinking about it. Was I cold? You bet. Was I scared? Absolutely. Did I want to immediately get out of the water? You know it!

And every time I tried to get out, my father would say in an even sterner voice, “Mijo, you better stay in the water. Your body will get used to the temperature and you won’t be cold anymore.”

“But it’s too cold, Papá,” I pleaded.

It was no use because my father would say, “Stay in the water. Don’t come out. Put your head under the water. Michael, you’re going to be fine. Stay in the water.”

My father was definitely hard on me, but I know that he wanted me to learn the value of not giving up, of not taking the easy way out, of sticking through the discomfort of it all. He wanted me to get over the initial shock of the icy-cold water so I could find the joy on the other side. And he was always right, because afterward my brother and I would stay in the water for hours upon hours until the sun started to finally go down.

Teaching Through Nature

My father always intuitively knew that the lessons my brother and I needed to learn could only be found in nature. He always knew that children, and people in general, learn through experience and watching others. That’s why he was so adamant about taking me camping before I could even walk. He wanted me to know that the outdoors provided not only the greatest lessons in life but also the greatest medicine. He wanted me to know intimately the healing power of the land and that any- thing was possible when we stuck together as a family, and as a community.

When my father’s back problems started to get worse, I did the one thing he taught me to do: I took him outdoors, or to be more specific, I took him to the beach. I made an appointment with a chiropractor whose office was next to the Santa Barbara beaches. Knowing that I had to do something drastic, I took my father to a chiropractor who was more like a shaman and who I hoped could help heal my father’s increasing back pain.

As I sat in the room next door waiting for my father’s appointment to end, I imagined him feeling better. I envisioned his health and vitality coming back stronger than ever. I even drew a picture in my mind’s eye of us camping together once again, only this time we’d be camping alongside the beach rather than on some steep mountaintop.

Afterward, I took my dad to the grocery store to buy some herbs and other items the chiropractor had told us to purchase. And as much as I wanted my father to feel better, or for him to believe that changing his lifestyle and eating habits would improve his health, it was his choice to make. But no matter what I said to convince him, no matter what I did to make him consider that taking these small steps would help him feel better, my father was unfortunately too stuck in his old ways.

Silent Healing by the Sea

As we drove down the 101 Highway looking out into the Pacific Ocean, I instinctively rolled down my father’s window so powers of the sun and the ocean breeze could bring him some semblance of comfort.

Trusting my intuition, I slowly turned down the radio and hesitantly asked him, “How are you feeling, Papá?”

“I’m fine, Mijo. Thank you for asking, and thank you for taking me to the chiropractor. I really needed that, and the mas- sage part felt great.”

Sensing an opening for me to continue the conversation, I asked him, “Are you going to do what the chiropractor told you and try to walk more and watch what you eat?”

Knowing that he didn’t want to let me down, or maybe not even wanting to answer my question, my father simply replied, “I’ll try,” even though I knew in my heart of hearts that he was lying.

As we got closer to the beaches of Ventura, I knew I needed to stop at the beach for my own sanity. I knew I needed to be as close as possible to the waves. So, this time without hesitating, I asked my father, “Papá, do you want to stop at the beach?”

“No, Mijo, let’s just go home. I’m tired.”

“Are you sure? How about we just stop for a quick minute?” And without waiting for him to respond, I got off on the next exit and went straight to the spot where I had learned to surf decades ago.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I found a spot where we could watch the waves hit the rocks. Knowing that my father was tired, and likely in too much pain to get out of the car, I sat there with him in complete silence as we both looked out into the nothingness.

I’ve always felt a little uncomfortable with silence, but for some reason on that day, I ignored the discomfort and didn’t say a word. I knew that the medicine that he and I both needed would come to us in that moment of quiet.

As I said before, I stopped at the beach that day because I needed to heal. I needed to let go of any expectations. I needed to surrender.

After a few awkward moments of us not saying a word to each other, I looked at my father and said, “Okay, Papá, we can go home now.”

As I left that corner of the world that had provided me with so many moments of comfort, I looked in the rearview mirror and surrendered to a higher power. And without knowing what to do, and without wanting to leave my father’s side, I silently said a prayer as the waves of the ocean crashed behind us.

Dear Lord, please take care of my father. Please make him feel better. Please take his pain away. He needs you now more than ever.