When in Nica, Do As the Manta Rays Do🥏
“Are you gonna take this?” I yell from across the water.
No answer.
The wave is building. It looks good. But the older guy closer to the peak is just… floundering. Paddling toward it, but not really placing himself in the right spot. I have a split second to make a decision: go for it, or pull back in case he decides last-minute to take it.
I call out even louder, “ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE THIS?”
He finally yells back at the very last second, “No, you can take it!”
I line up, pop up, and ride the wave. I felt proud, not just because I caught it, but because I used my voice. I took up space in a sport often driven by ego, entitlement, and competition. And it felt damn good.
It felt even better because just days before, I hadn’t.
Instead, I stayed quiet behind a chatty couple who let wave after wave roll by. I didn’t speak up; I tried unsuccessfully to “assert” myself with body language. Paddled forward and got into position.
But when the wave came, the woman suddenly went for it.
Fine. Her turn. I backed off.
Then came another wave. The guy let it pass. I paddled in front of him and got into position. I was determined to take the next wave, but it was still unclear what he was going to do. He was floundering, but then, at the last second, he took it.
And he damn near took me out with it.
His board cracked me in the head as I tried to duck under.
I surfaced, shaken but calm. What hurt more than the impact was realizing neither of them waited to see if I was okay. They were just… gone.
I couldn’t even be mad at them—trying to control someone else’s behavior or motives is a losing game. I was mad at myself. I had compromised my own safety chasing the high of catching a wave. I let ego take the wheel, instead of honoring why I came out there in the first place:
To have fun.
The next day, I went out again. A surfer friend said not to bother—pancake conditions, nothing much happening.
Perfect. Because that meant no crowd. No fighting for waves. Just me, the ocean, and the sky.
Sure, I love the high that comes from catching a wave.
But let me let you in on a little secret:
That’s not why I surf.
I surf for fun—
to bob on my board, weightless and free.
For presence—
to feel fully embodied.
For peace—
to finally disconnect from technology, to-dos, and the chaos of the world.
And as I floated there—happy to be alive (and alone)—
A silver disc suddenly shot out of the glassy stillness in front of me.
A manta ray.
It did a full 360 spin, right out of the water.
I laughed out loud in amazement. “WOW”, I called out, “SO COOL!”
When I got home later on, I read that manta rays only do that dervish twirl for three reasons:
To shake off parasites. (Relatable.)
To attract a mate. (Big flex.)
Or—get this—just for fun. (Yes, this one.)
The moment I saw it, I knew: that leap was one of pure joy.
It had to be.
It felt like something else, too—a quiet nod from the universe that when I choose joy over ego, the world reflects it right back.
Sometimes with a perfectly positioned wave. And sometimes—just sometimes—with a joyful manta ray playing happily in the water for no other reason than it’s alive… and it can.