Surfing is better than the Hot Wheels track and cars I played with when I was seven.
Jim and I used to set up the long orange track from the radiator cover – which was four feet high – in the living room at 50 East 96th Street, and run it down the length of the 60-foot hall. We’d race our best cars against each other. We spent hours doing it and looked forward to it whenever we could.
Then, when I was 16 – after some years of no Hot Wheels, mind you – there came surfing. And it was like a way of life. I mean, we did it, talked about it, dreamed about it, bragged about it, pretended we were cool in front of the girls because of it…we were surfers, it was our identity. As far as I recall, Hot Wheels never had that spell – of determining identity.
So moving to New York City, my surfing days will become…few. If any. I suppose I could take the A train out to Rockaway Beach the way I did once. But there are skyscrapers in front of you as you drop in on that mushy left break, and you always worry that someone’s going to swipe your bag on the beach, so you hide it behind a trash bin somewhere. Not the same as Good Harbor Beach.
So I’m sad about that.
But then I think of heaven.
Because of Jesus, we are promised something even better than surfing, and perhaps even way better than Hot Wheels.
That’s kind of what I’m hanging my hat on.