SATURDAY IN BUSUA

The next morning, after a jog along the shore and a big banana pancake with maple syrup, we were back in the ocean. The feel of the ocean was different as the current was moving in a different direction. I pushed and pushed to get up on the waves which seemed to be breaking with more strength than they had the day before. One problem I was having is that the nose of the surf board continued to dip into the water sending me head first over the board. On one of those trips into the water, the weight of the wave slammed me into the sandy sea floor with an impact that felt like a decent punch in the face.

I decided to take a break from surfing after that one, though I did think about going out to catch one more wave. As Tamara continued to try and catch a wave with Peter’s assistance, I wandered down the shore.

I went to watch the Aussie’s surf who seemed to get up on the waves with a much greater ease on what were much harder boards to control. I then noticed Angel playing with some children who had a black rubber tube. As we talked, a trio of children tried to use us as guards in there mud fight. At first I warned them not to get any on me, then I joined in and fought then 1 on 3. Once I was covered from my ankle to my head is splotches of the soft mud, I called it quits. As I began speaking with the children, they asked me where I was from.

“Canada”
“We’re from Canada too”, then ten year old Darren said.
“What part?”
“Saskatchewan”
“Hey, I know someone else that is Ghanaian that is from Saskatchewan. Her name is Edith”
“That’s our Mom’s name”, they said in symphony.
“Does she work for CUSO”
“Yeah”, said Sharmony.
“How do you know her?”, asked Daren.
“I met her at a conference in Bolgatanga”
“She goes there like once a month”, Sharmony told me.

I then asked them if they have good memories. After they insisted that they do (and later noted that they don’t have short-term memory issues, only their Dad does), I asked them to pass on a message.

“Tell her that Chris from Tamale is staying at the Alaska Resort”.
“You’re from Tamale?”, Daren asked.
“No, I used to live there. That’s where I met her”.

At the beach I also saw Shaq from Tamale. There are a bunch of guys in Tamale that hang around the spots that ex-pats like to hang out, and most of them are shady. However, Shaq was one of the few guys that I took to, and seemed to be a genuinely good person. I was happy and surprised to see him. He told me that he was there with his girlfriend, but the next four times that I saw him, he was alone.

After playing with the children for awhile, I decided to go back to surfing. I was determined to get back on the waves and to rise to the challenge. I couldn’t accept not getting up on the waves again.

When I got back out there though, the ease that I found the day before was gone. Every wave I attempted to ride seemed to bring a wipeout. The earlier meet and greet with the sea floor, which left a mark on my face that looked like a scrape and a shiner seemed to have gotten to me psychologically.

After about an hour, I retreated for the shore. I took to reading an article about a six time world surfing champion. He has the cover story on the magazine that focused on big wave surfing. The pages were full of tales of undertows and tips such as how to avoid getting your board snapped in half in 10 foot waves. The actual cover story was titled, “Defeated?”. In it, there was an interview which went through his rise as a twelve year old superstar, his transforming influence on the sport of surfing, his six world titles (the same number achieved by Micheal Jordan), his three year retirement, his need to surpass his status as legend and prove himself again, surfing two major competitions with a broken foot, losing the world title by one heat, his family problems, his discovery of what really matters in life, and his hope to have the best of both worlds (which would be for him his new perspective on the value of family and another world title).

He mentioned that he always had found that when his back was against the wall, and things looked out of reach, that he would find a way to pull through and come out on top. He recounted the instance when this pattern changed, and he was taught what it is like to lose, and still have to continue on. He described it as a necessary step, but it also motivated to continue to achieve, but this time, with a new order or priorities and a some new values. Part of that statement resonated with me. I used to be told by someone quite close to me that, “things always seem to work out for you”; I thought of those words as I read his comment.

At this point, I don’t know how that fully connects to the bigger picture. I know that not everything has worked out right away, but I have been given the blessed opportunity to face uncertainty by ‘waiting on the Lord’, knowing that, ‘I will not be ashamed’.

With that said, and as my mind was drifting, I returned my focus to the beach and headed back out into the water. Once again, the surfing did not go as I had hoped. As it began to grow dim, I decided to retire my board for that trip. I continued to pass by that magazine cover, sitting on the table which read, “Defeated?”.

I had thought out those guys who had bones broken, who were sent to get stitches after being thrown into reefs, or who had drowned – or almost drowned – after being dragged a like a plastic bag or piece of sea weed by the undertow. They practiced holding their breath by carrying heavy stones under water for training, they were bruised and brutalized by the weight of massive amounts of roaring water, and they risked their lives for the thrill of living one of the those uncommon moments caught in the eye of a camera where they stood in the blue and white barrel on an unfolding crescent taller than a grown man. They was both something romantic and pointless about it to me. The idea of that free spirit, who takes so much time getting to the ocean. Braving massive waves, and even the brutal cold that can numb your body – even when protected by a wet suit. I thought of their achievements and the sacrifices they made to get there, wondering if I could do the same, but I just wanted write. It just made that gift more clear in my eyes.

That evening, after dinner at a French restaurant on the beach, of which we were the only patrons, I finally ran into Edith who was with her children. She informed me that we could go across the street to the rooftop of their hotel to get phone reception. She also offered a ride back to Accra on Sunday morning to Tamara and I instead of taking the Sunday morning bus back.

I was committed to being back in Accra for Adwoa’s birthday dinner that evening, so that was not an option for me. However, Tamara (who was also celebrating a birthday on that same Sunday) wanted to stay.

We went to the hotel and used the phone on the rooftop. I was also very happy to get a message from Myma who was heading back to London that day, and whose number I had lost when my phone got taken. Micky and I were supposed to go to her friend’s BBQ, but that didn’t happen. After Tamara and I made the phone calls that we needed to make, we headed down stairs to the restaurant. There, playing pool was Edith’s husband Neil and the owner of the hotel, a White guy from Saskatchewan who well suited in the brown Ghanaian fabric that he was wearing. After a conversation that seemed to rotate around his sense of humor (which made fun of himself as much as others), I took to the table. The first match, was against Neil was won by me with a sort of spectacular 5 ball finish, which made use of a technique that I picked up from a woman that I was watching on ESPN in a billiards tournament. I was amazed that the technique was working. We then played doubles with his children Daren and Sharmony.

After some insistence, I agreed to take the three children with me down to the bonfire that a local beachfront bar owner promised for Tamara’s birthday. When we got there, the wood was built into what looked like a twelve foot teepee. We had a fun as the fire blazed a bright hole into the deep black that surrounded the beach. I taught Sharmony how to spar, while Daren taught me the basics of stick fighting. To the sound of Hip Life, Hip Hop and Reggea bumping through the beach speakers, some of us played a game of futeball with a half inflated ball, while others enjoyed the music and the fire (some sitting, some standing). Highlighting the celebrations was a big cake that the children carved into the sand and Charles who took gas into his mouth and spit out huge bursts of flames.

During the game of futeball one of those tough-foot beach children kicked his heel into my toe, and I was finished with that game. I limped off with what I later found out was a fractured toe. It’s happened before on other toes, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so it’s not a big worry.

As Edith and Neil came to get their children, and others headed out, about ten of us remained. I had thought of going back to the villa early, but I opted to stay at Tamara’s reminder of my idea of celebrating her birthday at midnight.

Knowing that I was in a secure place, with people who knew the area near by, I wandered about 20 metres away to the water. The full moon was finally visible, as it had risen through the dust, that is so thick on the horizon during this season. The waves had silver streaks from the light that the surface of the moon seemed to cool down and neutralize. When Frankie came down to the shore to see if I was alright, I told him that I could just feel God speaking to my heart. He understood: “you’re just holding a mediation?”. Yeah.

The gift of life. The blessing of being there. So many loved ones. So much grace. Having survived all that I have survived to be there, with the waves, the moonlight, the bonfire to my back, the music, the new friends, and the love that reaches me from the other side of this planet, which is not even a speck of dust in this universe that is beyond measure and comprehension, yet the planet is still spectacular.

When I returned to the fire, we sat there, each in our own world, together.

We were the last to leave. As we walked towards the villa, the sound of Sizzla over the speakers was turned down, and the flames which had surpassed the height of NBA rim regulations was now at the height of a hurdle.

I took delight in the sound of the waves, which seemed to reach and recede over me like the sand that water passes over.