It’s been years since I swam in the Gulf. And I mean really jogged into the surf, hurled myself into the breakers, and let other, much younger swimmers pee on me.
At least that’s exactly what the little swimmer next to me was doing. We were both swimming in the same crystal-blue Gulf water, just off the coast of Fort Pickens, not more than nine feet from each other’s wake. The boy was splashing and laughing. Then, the boy shouted to his mom with the same urgency often reserved for the threat of nuclear war: “Mom! I have to pee!”
His mother, who was on shore, hollered back, “Just pee in the water!”
The boy glanced at me briefly. We locked eyes for a moment. The boy’s facial muscles clenched. And finally, a cleansing look of urethral relief washed over his face.
“Okay!” he shouted. “All better!”
I hurriedly swam away, doing a violent rendition of the freestyle, achieving speeds akin to those of Michael Phelps.
But the kid sort of followed me. And whenever the boy wasn’t tee-teeing on innocent bystanders, he was usually splashing around and laughing.
Sometimes he’d engage in various acts of gymnastics, or maybe it was some kind of insane yoga, whereupon he’d start yelling: “Look, Mom! I’m doing it!”
He yelled this over and over again.
“Look! Mom! I’m doing it!”
Why is it that kids who swim always yell, “Look! I’m doing it!”? And why do they yell this phrase approximately four million times? What exactly are they “doing”? And more importantly, why does this require everyone to “look”?
But getting back to my beach story.
So, I was on the beach because I was with my sister and my wife. We met at the beach earlier that day. I was in town to perform my one-man shipwreck. We had a few hours to kill, so we decided to take walks and go jogging through Fort Pickens, then maybe grab a bite. The day began with my sister, my wife and me all going for a stroll on the sand.
But things went afield quickly. Because at some point—and I don’t remember who made this initial decision—we all ended up in the water.
My wife was first to dive in. Without preamble, mid-conversation, my wife sprinted toward the oncoming breakers.
“What’re you doing?” I hollered from shore. My wife was fully clothed. Shoes and everything.
“I’m going swimming!” she said while jogging and peeling off her shirt.
“We don’t have bathing suits!” I yelled.
But it was too late. She had stripped off her shoes and was plunging into the water wearing only her sports bra and skivvies.
My sister followed.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Where are YOU going?”
“Use your imagination, genius,” she hollered while racing toward the water.
Before long, my wife and sister were having a splash fight. At which point one of them shouted to me—seriously—“Look! I’m doing it!”
“Come swim with us!” they said, motioning to me.
Peer pressure is a powerful force. It can transform you into someone else, without warning. One minute you’re wearing all your clothes, acting like a rational human being. The next minute, you’re stripping off random articles of clothing in a public place, sprinting toward a wave, shouting, “Cannonball!”
And that’s precisely what occurred. The spirit of the moment overtook me. I tore off my shirt and shoes and started trotting toward the water. My trot turned into a full run. I reached the water and cannoned into the surf.
I went underwater. I resurfaced and started laughing uncontrollably.
And then I sort of lost myself.
Warm water washed over me, engulfing me, and bringing back memories by the gallon.
I grew up by the beach. I worked as a beach lifeguard for several summers. I have owned three sailboats. I love saltwater.
The power of the Gulf can be felt in your bones. The noise. The whooshing, crushing, deafening, and yet oddly gentle sound. The water, slightly cooler than body temperature, will awaken your mind and body. The Gulf spray will invigorate you.
And yet, when I was a lifeguard, we’d watch inexperienced swimmers disrespect the Gulf. They’d dive into the surf on red-flag days, beating their arms against each wave, treating the whole experience like a frat party. But the Gulf of Mexico is no frat house. It’s a realm. An ecosystem. A creature. It’s alive. And as a living thing, it is filled with energy. Each single wave contains the whole kinetic energy of the entire Earth.
And just like any mighty thing of nature, you will only find peace for yourself when you submit to and respect it.
Right then, I started thinking about how my friend Morgan Love is still on hospice care. At 21 years young, after a lifetime of fighting health issues, she too is faced with no choice but to submit to the power that overwhelms her earthly body.
And I was thinking about how she has chosen to live. She did not waste a nanosecond of her life.
I remember once having a conversation with her after her first near-death experience. I asked her what the biggest life change was since coming back.
She smiled. “I quit saying ‘no’ so much.”
I asked her to explain.
“Well, before, I rarely said ‘yes’ to stuff. I turned people down a lot. I did my own thing, stuck to my own routines. But now I have learned that when you say ‘yes,’ you open yourself up to beauty. Anything is possible when you say ‘yes.’”
So I said yes to swimming. Even though I am a busy guy. Even though I have to be onstage in a few hours for sound check. I swam.
I was careful to remain close to shore as the water carried me several hundred yards down the shore. Soon, I realized I was far away from any other beachgoers.
Still, I remained flat on my back, floating, staring at the sky. I did not fight the currents. I didn’t buck or kick. I just went with it. They tossed me onto the beach, then sucked my body off the sand again, then regurgitated me once more.
The pink clouds of dusk approached. Waves broke over my face, filling my nostrils and mouth with brine. And through it all I felt something. Something deep.
I could hear the distant sounds of my wife and sister laughing. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I felt my own breathing, nourishing my life with each in-breath. And above all, I could feel the striking, humbling, often misunderstood power of the Gulf. And God. And life.
“Look, Morgan,” I whispered. “I’m doing it.”
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Originally published on Sean’s website. Republished here with permission.
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