Years have passed, yet the roar of angry waves and crashing breakers still pound in my ears on quiet nights when my world is still, and I am all alone.
A group of twelve volunteers from across Canada and the United States was stationed on Liberia’s coast. Located along a nine-mile stretch of golden-white sand, the SIM mission station served as a support base for missionaries working throughout the country. Volunteers were involved in a variety of areas—teaching, medical work, construction, and electronics.
The final day of our three-month assignment had arrived. At 6:00 a.m., with mist rising off the ocean, seven friends greeted me at my front door to say goodbye. We planned to celebrate with a farewell body surf in the foaming Atlantic. Like board surfing, the body surfer waits for a strong wave only without the board and then swims vigorously ahead of it until overtaken and transported on its crest. The sensation is exhilarating.
The rising sun silhouetted white breakers were crashing onto the shore. The ocean seemed angry as if she had tossed out of bed on the wrong side of the world. We stood silently in thought, prayer and admiration. Her thundering voice challenged our spirit of adventure.
I lingered on the shore, reminiscing with friends. It hurt deeply to be leaving behind so much, especially a close Liberian friend who had walked ten kilometres from Monrovia to say goodbye. There was too much to be told and too little time to talk. Three months ago, we were a group of strangers, but now we are a family, and we agonized at the thought of parting.
It was almost time to leave, but I longed to have one last surf. It was to be my farewell challenge to another summertime companion, the ocean.
I swam out and tried the waves, but they were not high enough. I swam farther, despite warnings of strange violence this morning. The waves seemed perfect, cresting over five feet. I waited for the right lift and started to swim. Something was wrong. My strokes were barely enough to move me along at all. I felt the straitjacket constraint of muscle cramps. Why? Was it the emotion of the hour or the fatigue of a late-night?
A wave came, and I tried but failed to swim ahead of it. I was sucked under for a few seconds before resurfacing. I tried a second wave and then a third—but my fear brought no surge of adrenalin to motivate my paralyzed arms and legs.
I had been in the ocean for more than twenty minutes and was out nearly half a kilometre. I could see my friends on the bank—figurines on a mantel-piece of sand—clustered around the broken carcass of an old dugout canoe.
My lungs were beginning to feel as if they would explode! With each successive wave, I was pulled and twisted like a towel in a washing machine. I no longer knew which way was up. I might never see the sun again. It became more challenging to surface each time I was sucked below the surface. The sound of the ocean’s fury was so loud it was difficult to think. Any hope of getting to shore was gone. How does one’s life end? Do you give up and drift naturally into the cold depths, or do you deliberately swallow water? My mind was numb.
In a desperate effort to keep my nose above the surface, I forced my head back and gazed upward. The morning sky was a perfect blue, and the drifting clouds were billows of white. There, amid the violence, I understood the reality of faith.
Alone and helpless, I heard the Master’s voice whispering comfort, and His heavens welcomed me. If I had any doubts about what we possess in Christ, they vanished at that moment. I now understood Paul’s confident mind. The peace and joy that overwhelmed my soul were more significant than the waters that were overtaking my physical life. The music to the hymn “Coming Home” floated on angels’ voices through my mind as the ocean attempted to steal the fatal few centimetres to cover my nose one last time. Had I been able to, I would have raised my hands in praise from this chapel in the sea.
Then out of nowhere, I heard a human voice. The sound shocked me. Dennis, my close friend, his curly black hair, was bobbing well above the surface next to me.
I pleaded with him to return to shore. Why had he come out? I could not possibly make it back. “Please leave me and go back!”
He refused and shouted above the raging wind, “God is not finished with us yet.”
His inclusive statement hurled a spear into my heart. If I were to drown, would he remain until it was too late to save himself?
Dennis could see the oncoming waves, and he shouted when it was time to try to ride one.
“Now!” I struggled, but the cramps had become more severe. My lungs were bursting, and my heart thudded against aching ribs. Water went into my nose and made my brain feel as if it were on fire. I went under and was twisted by the undertow. I hit something! Was it a shark? At this depth, we were in the centre of his dining table. I wanted Dennis to be far away when I surfaced—if I surfaced. Then I could escape. Not a suicidal wish, just a recognition of my fate.
No, there he was at my side. “That one was no good. Here comes a better one.” I saw him looking upward and knew he was praying desperately. Then I got another glimpse of the distant shore and outlines of my friends huddled in prayer.
The wave thundered toward us, and I tried to swim. My effort was poor. Then there was the sensation of someone grabbing me from above by my bathing suit and lifting me to the top of the crest. I strained to look but could only see my friend beside me, moving at the same speed. I was suspended from above as if by a parachute, I rode the ocean like some lightweight jockey!
Seconds later, I crashed onto the beach. My open mouth was crammed full of sand and seaweed.
Friends rushed to help and pressed on my ribs. Sand, brine and seaweed spewed from my mouth. They helped me to stand, and together we stumbled the short distance back along the beach toward my house.
As I glanced out across the angry ocean, I praised God for the sand under my unsteady feet, the feeling of safety and the warmth of friends guiding my wobbly steps. The pain in my chest lessened as I lurched along to the security of my room. My friends eased me onto a bed, where I slept deliriously for more than an hour. As reality faded, I whispered a weak thank you to Dennis, who stood at my side.
Today when I consider God’s deliverance from the horror of that forty-five-minute ordeal, it is the truth that moves me most. He proved that the death of a Christian could be a time of fantastic joy and peace. I know that I have not believed in vain. I know that He is alive and that we will live with Him forever.