My Preacher Daddy Gave Me the Gift of Surfing

"He was a Baptist preacher, too, that was well down the ladder of his identity. Water held the top rung."

My dad wasn’t a surfer.

He spent his formative years in South Florida, and his older brother surfed (at least according to my beloved uncle’s bygone tales at family gatherings), but as far as I know my dad never paddled out until long after I was born.

He was a water guy, though, way down deep in his bones.

Of course, he was a Baptist preacher, too, but in my mind that was well down the ladder of his identity.

Water held the top rung.

He swam on a decorated and highly competitive team in high school and constantly regaled my siblings and me about how his teammate won multiple Olympic medals (turns out this was actually true – see the Wiki bio of John Maurer Nelson, who among other things claimed a 1968 gold as part of a relay team featuring Mark Spitz).

He loved kayaks and canoes and two-man cats — basically anything propelled with a paddle or hand-rigged sail.

He wasn’t into power boats or bigger sailboats.

He wanted to be next to the water, to feel the tides and current, to dip his fingers in as the river flowed by.

I knew what Old Town stood for before I ever heard the names Channel Islands or Natural Art.

From the time I could barely walk, he had me out paddling with him.

I knew a J stroke before I was potty trained.

We spent countless hours on rivers and lakes, gaping at massive gators sunning on the shore, cutting through mangrove swamps, stealing quick dips at likely watering holes while keeping a close eye out for Florida’s apex predators.

I wasn’t keeping track, but I’m guessing we paddled just about every nook and cranny from Jupiter to DeLand before I was in middle school.

For my 13th summer, we took a family trip to Brazil and spent several weeks traveling around the country visiting missionaries that our church supported.

We hit Sao Paulo, Brasilia, Salvador and Foz do Iguacu, among other places.

But our last week we spent on a rickety houseboat, heading up the Rio Negro out of Manaus deep into virgin jungle.

There we encountered indigenous people groups living in stick huts along the river.

But the highlight, at least for my dad, were the dugout canoes.

Paddling those things is like sitting on a cafeteria dinner tray in the middle of piranha-infested waters.

But my dad was in heaven.

I was enthralled too, but it was his enthusiasm and sheer giddiness over being literally at the OG source of his passion — riding an all-natural, hand-hewn vessel carved from native Amazonian trees by a craftsman working off of a centuries-old oral tradition blueprint— that made the moment so memorable.

Which is another thing — my dad remains the most positive, glass half-full person I’ve ever met in my over half century on this earth.

He is irrationally enthusiastic about everything and everyone he encounters, nearly incapable of spotting the negative in any situation.

My cynical younger self never fully appreciated this trait — being “realistic” and jaded was way more cool in my eyes.

More Matt Archbold, less Frankie Avalon.

Only now do I realize what a gift his relentless optimism and support was (and is).

Which brings me back to surfing.

When our church youth pastor started ferrying a crew of me and my elementary school buddies to the ocean, my dad offered his unbridled support.

I was outside, and in the water, and he didn’t much care what my mode of transport was across said water — he was just stoked out of his mind that I wanted to be out there.

And that’s the way it always was.

Other parents had different priorities.

They cared about things like their kid not having sand between his toes during first bell.

Like making sure the preacher’s kid didn’t live in Gotcha trunks and cutoff Billabong tees.

Not my dad.

From hitting dawn patrols before class in high school, to countless road trips with buddies to score waves, to heading off to Central America on my own at 17 — he never once said anything other than, “I’m jealous, have fun.”

In his late 50s, long after I left the nest, he took up surf kayaking.

He had a buddy of about his age who surfed and encouraged my dad to get out there with him.

My dad took him up on it, but being much more comfortable with a paddle in his hand decided the kayak was the right move.

I wasn’t there to see it, but during this era my dad claims that he made it out in a big nor’easter swell and rode a 15 footer from several hundred yards out all the way to the sand.

He said his buddy was right there, and he thought he heard him yelling, “Go!!”

Turns out, the buddy was yelling, “No!!”

But as we all know, it’s always the ones you don’t think you’ll make that end up making your memories.

Nowadays my dad lives on a river not far from Virginia Beach.

His backyard has a makeshift canoe rack stocked with assorted paddle vessel options, plus several boards from my own quiver that I’ve deposited there over the years.

A decade or so ago — back when some shit was hitting the fan in my own life — I moved in with him and my mom for a while.

It was in some ways the worst of times, in many others the best.

But whenever my world began to spin upside down, I’d cope by surfing — and paddling.

Dad and I would lug a canoe down to the river.

We’d point toward a horizon.

Dip our paddles into the liquid therapy.

Nowhere really to go, at least not geographically speaking.

A guy and his dad.

Just letting the river flow.