On sandboarding

When I was younger my parents took us on a family trip to Inks Lake State Park. My brothers and I are close and I was at the age when whatever big brother did, little brother did too. Therefore, it should have come as no surprise that before the day was through I found myself clinging to the upper branches of a tree towering twenty some odd feet above the surface of the water, still rippling from Michael's dive. 

“There no easy way out of this one,” I thought as my parents watched patiently below…smiling.

I was hoping for a last minute, “What do you think you’re doing, get down here right now!”

Instead, a single command burst forth from the crowd lazily floating along the bank of the lake.

“JUMP!” 

“If Michael can do it so can I,” was my final thought as I stepped off into my 1.12 second free fall.

My final thought should have been, “Tuck your chin in and look at your feet.”

—but a good old fashioned belly-flop is funny to watch, granted you’re not on the receiving end.

So really, I served in the best interest of all the hecklers assembled that day.

During my fall, I learned something important about myself: That I loved it. I loved the feeling of my stomach in my throat, the tunnel vision, my body going a little numb, the adrenaline shakes and shivers afterwards. That moment you say to yourself, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

So when my friend Lucciani asked me if I’d ever want to go sandboarding, I didn’t even hesitate 1.12 seconds before answering yes.

About fifteen minutes north of Chimbote lies the small town of Coishco encircled by a small range of dark rocky mountains. One of the mountain faces is covered in bright sand and opens out onto the valley of Santa below, a prime spot to practice the increasingly popular extreme sport. 

A panoramic view of Coischo to the left and the agricultural valley of Santa to the right.

 Lucciani and his best friend Fernando have been sandboarding for about fifteen years and have traveled as far as Ica in the south in search of great sandboarding spots. 

My friends Lucciani, coming back from a run, and Fernando who is straight chillin'.

What’s really fascinating about the boarding spot in Coishco is that the dunes rest above the site of an ancient Pre-Incan burial ground. Lucciani and Fernando have a lot of pride for their country and are working to bring attention and awareness to the fact that this historical treasure is literally blowing away right before their eyes. No one seems very interested in hearing them out. 

A shard of pottery.

 What this means for me is that I get to discover and touch things that normally I’d only see under glass or with a vulture-eyed librarian breathing down my neck (no offense to librarians in general, just the vulture-eyed variety).

A small piece of brittle woven cloth.

 Coming from a guy that bugged out over handling a tattered piece of scrap paper used by W.B. Yeats in the archives of the Harry Ransom Center, I felt like Indiana Jones himself as I sifted through the sand for pottery shards. I mean, the scrap paper was only from the '20s. All I lacked was a whip and a mummy hand ominously rising up from the earth and I could have died happy then and there. 

Hopefully I didn't accumulate any bad juju.

 It was actually pretty sad once we started coming across sun bleached bones exposed to the elements. It doesn’t matter what the tribe believed, I have a lot of respect for death and the culturally significant rituals surrounding it.

 I felt heavy hearted knowing that hundreds of years ago these people were probably buried with ceremony and reverence only to be unearthed by the driving wind and sand. But that’s the way things go I guess. 

 It would be really awesome to see some kind of movement to excavate and preserve the site, though.

Fernando said that the mountains are full of gold but of the type that requires an expensive and destructive extraction and refining process. We can only hope that the burial site draws the attention of archeologists before it draws the attention of money-makers. 

As far as sandboarding goes, I found that the most difficult part is actually the climb up. Boarding is a full body sport requiring balance, coordination and strength for sure.

What this photo doesn't capture is all the huffing and wheezing.

 However, there’s nothing more comically frustrating than running up a mountain of sand like a Loony Toon only to find that you haven't really been moving forward at all. But once you finally make it to the top, it’s all downhill. And the ride is a lot longer than 1.12 seconds. 

I'm still an amateur, but at least this isn't a clip of me face-planting.

 

 

Moments like these...

I can still vividly remember interviewing for a spot as an Incarnate Word Missionary a little more than a year ago in San Antonio. Sister Dot and a young woman named Clare, who was the interim director at the time, sat across the room from me, both appearing cordial and genuinely interested in what I was saying as I introduced myself and spoke about what had attracted me to the program and why I might be qualified to be a part of it. 

Sister Dot, a tall graceful looking older woman, nodded peacefully as she sat relaxed in her seat, but her gaze never strayed far from my eyes—which would have been intimidating if she weren't radiating positive vibes at almost tangible levels. Clare, young and hip looking with a nose ring talked about the program excitedly. They asked questions which I answered. I asked questions which they answered. I thought it went well, and seeing as how I'm here, they felt I was right for the job. 

Looking back now though, one of their questions remains with me to this day. 

Essentially they asked:

"You know, you may go into mission, you may work and work for the next two years and you may never see any of the fruits of your labor. Are you okay with that?"

I said that I understood and I was fine with the idea of possibly never seeing any concrete outcomes from any of my service. That I understood how real change requires long term goals and patience. I believed that then, and still do now.


—but sometimes it can get more than a little discouraging when you're actually here living it.  When you stop and wonder to yourself, "Am I even doing anything?"

I have seen many fruits of my labor, thankfully. Sometimes manifested in the form of new friends. Other times in a new opportunity for Pushaq Warmi. Or maybe through a nice email from someone I love a lot.

About the time I started really recognizing and (more importantly) appreciating moments like these, I realized that it isn't so much about seeing the fruits so much as the labor that went into bearing them. 

The labor and love that goes into moments like these: