Joaquim Mohsen

I was in the south of Portugal, twenty years old, and I like to think I had the body of a Greek god (well, that’s what I choose to believe. I probably more closely resembled the Pillsbury Dough-boy, but this is my story, so indulge me). The temperature was soaring in the high 80s to low 90s Fahrenheit (that’s around 30°C for those of you Celsius weirdos, ‘Murica), the perfect weather for a beach day. Not a cloud in sight, and the water was at that magical temperature where the initial plunge wasn’t a shock, yet it was cool enough to offer respite from the heat. Waves crashed rhythmically against the rocky shoreline, the sand burned the soles of my feet the moment I slipped off my sandals, and the air was filled with the unique scent of salt mixed with a hint of coconut. Women strutted around in bathing suits—some just in bottoms, thanks to European norms—stirring thoughts I’m still confessing to the priest. Forgive me, Father.

I was out in the water, enjoying every moment of it. That day, the waves were particularly fierce, which only added to the thrill. I fancied myself as Poseidon, master of the sea (and yes, I genuinely believed this; I was, and perhaps still am, a bit autistic). No wave could topple me; I was invincible… until I wasn’t. It only took one monstrous wave to remind me that I was but a mere mortal.

At first, I didn’t think twice. I saw the wave begin to rise and prepared to do what I had done countless times that day. But as it started to approach, I realized it was at least twice my height. And I had no choice but to face this monstrosity head-on. This beast of a wave bore down on me. I tried my hardest to conquer the sea again, but before I knew it, I was swept off my feet, caught in its tumultuous embrace.

I was spun around, flipped every which way. Water gushed up my nose, and my arms flailed pathetically. Disoriented, panic took over my entire mind and body. Fears of being smashed into the rocky shoreline flooded my thoughts. I could die, or become paralyzed. It felt like my life was over. I had attempted to take Poseidon’s throne, but he reminded me that there was only one King of the Seas.

But then, it struck me: at this moment, I was powerless; my fate was no longer in my hands. My body relaxed, I stopped flailing, and time seemed to slow. Worry ebbed out of my mind as peace swelled inside. I surrendered to the wave. Each tumble and flip became less about the fear of where I’d end up and more about savoring the moment. The ride from hell became the ride of a lifetime. I felt like I was now flying through the air.

Needless to say, I survived with no major injuries. The ocean spit me out onto the shore, as if to mock me, saying, “This time was just a reminder, next time you won’t be as lucky.” I lay in the sand and could only manage to start laughing.

This experience imparted a profound life lesson: there comes a point where our control ends. We can choose to panic, or we can take a breath and let the wave carry us, embracing the journey. This isn’t about being passive; do all that you can, and when you’ve done that, accept the things that you cannot. Take a breath, ride the blue wave, and don’t think about where you’ll end up, savor the journey getting there.