March 24, 2021
Am I a dreamer or a doer? Is it possible to be both? Because I want to. I’m a full-blown dreamer at heart, but what are dreams if not entry points to action? What are ideas if not doorways to larger living? I’m learning to say yes to action when it lines up with those deep desires that at times feel unattainable. Say yes to the hangout. Yes to the thing in front of you that sounds good. Yes to beach camping.
A new friend from church texted me last week and said she and some others were going camping in Carpinteria for the weekend—did I want to come? We’d briefly talked at church about camping and me learning to surf, so I was thrilled Emily actually reached out about not one but both of those things. Some people are all talk, you know? That might be one of my worst fears for myself. All talk and no follow through. I pray I’m not that person. This is why my dreams have to lead somewhere—otherwise they’re just beautiful visions that never come to fruition.
I had plans to paint my bedroom in my new apartment that weekend, but this sounded better. The mismatched walls could wait.
Despite hastily packing my car at 7 a.m. on Friday, I didn’t leave for camping until Saturday morning. Work went late on Friday and setting up my tent in the dark didn’t sound ideal. So I waited, slept in my bed for one more night than I planned on. When I left the next morning to meet the camping crew in Carpinteria, I was beyond ready for a little adventure.
Truth is, I wasn’t only going for the friends, which is why I do a lot of things in my life. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for quality time with a friend. But these people were acquaintances, mostly. A couple of them were new people entirely. I wasn’t going for the comfort or the photos or the sense of freedom, either.
I was going because I wanted to. Simple as that. Because I thought it would be refreshing and renew a strong sense of self.
For years, I’ve wanted to be this wild outdoorswoman who can hike, surf, fish, camp, and survive confidently outside the confines of her home. I’ve taken baby steps towards this over time, but I lack confidence. Somehow it usually comes back to this issue for me. I feel the need for help, or maybe approval. Instead of stepping up and teaching myself what I needed to know, and diving headfirst into what I want to do, I just say yes to opportunities when they come. I don’t create them. Saying yes is part of it, but that’s just the beginning. But hey, if we don’t begin, we can never experience what comes next.
What came next in Carpinteria was setting up my tent, rolling out my new mummy sleeping bag (buying it was one of those baby steps I mentioned), and observing the ways of the weekend campers around me. The group was out surfing, so I walked down to the beach to meet up with them. I didn’t surf that day due to the timing of my arrival, but just seeing them in action got me eager for the weekend adventures to come.
Post-surf, some of us took a walk to a local coffee shop—Lucky Llama. Highly recommend if you’re ever in town. The mocha I had that morning was one of the best, ever. I didn’t even need the caffeine; I just wanted to have a local experience. Glad I did, because it hit the spot. I started chatting with Chelsea, a gal who’s new to my church. She knew Emily, and that’s how she ended up on the trip. We talked about work and God and roommates. She’s the kind of person I could see myself having morning coffee with on a balcony with a beach view. She was spunky and easy to be around. Perhaps the sweetest part—she encouraged me without even knowing me. She spoke boldly to her confidence in my purpose in the world, and I felt like the sun was shining inside of me.
I aspire to this kind of mentality. To be someone who looks at a person they’ve just met and have full confidence in their contribution to the world, knowing nothing about them. I do believe that’s true—each of us matters. Each of us is here with a precise purpose. Being reminded was heartening. I hope I can be a person who does the reminding, too.
An afternoon hike took our group into the beauty of the mountains. The ocean was still in view, but it was time to share company with the trees, shrubs, dirt, and rocks. They welcomed us warmly as we entered the trail as a group. On the trail, we played this game called “Wombat.” Emily started it. I had played a variation of it before, but it took me a few minutes to remember the secret.
Emily would say something like, “Okay, okay, listen. If this leaf is a wombat, and his shoelace is a wombat, then is that rock a wombat?” And whoever else was playing would have to respond yes or no. The funny thing about the game is that it hinges on classic misdirection. You think you’re supposed to pay attention to the objects that are called out as wombats, thinking that’s where the clue lies as to whether or not the final object mentioned is also a wombat.
But that isn’t it. It’s about a pattern. Paying attention to the thing right in front of you that you’re probably missing because your focus is elsewhere.
Truth is, whether or not something is a “wombat” has nothing to do with the other objects in play. It only has to do with the intro. Every time Emily started the game off with some variation of “Okay, listen up,” or “Alright, listen… are you listening?” that meant the answer at the end was yes. No matter the objects, the final thing was a wombat. But if she didn’t prep the game that way, if she just launched into, “If this is a wombat, and this is a wombat, is that a wombat?” then the answer was always no. Not a wombat.
The hilarious part of the game is that it’s so simple, yet so easy to miss the trick. The clue is exactly where you don’t expect it to be—in the intro. You might not even be paying attention to the only part that can help you figure out the right answer.
Misdirection. Deception.
I find I quite often fall prey to misdirection in my world. I think the secret to whatever situation I’m facing is found within the people around me. Maybe they know what to do. Maybe their opinion is the right one. Maybe I need to seek the answer outside of God and me because I cannot be trusted, and God can be slow to respond.
Paying attention to the wrong part of the circumstance only leads to frustration. When you play wombat with someone long enough, and they don’t understand how to discern if something is or isn’t a wombat, they start to anger.
“Okay, okay, listen—”
“I am listening!!”
They don’t realize they’re listening to the wrong part while neglecting the pivotal bit at the beginning. The very part that’s frustrating them is the part they need.
How much of my frustration stems from paying attention to the wrong part? How many times have I said to God, to myself, to the world, “I’m listening!” only to be deceiving myself in the very affirmation?
What am I listening to, and what is it doing within the walls of my life?
As the day turned to night, and the night wound down, I crawled into my tent. I was more comfortable than I expected. Perhaps exhausted by the day of fun, my body ready to rest. What I found in the darkness of the night was something to listen to.
The sound of waves lapping up against the shore lulled me to sleep. Every time I awoke, the sound was still there. Consistent. Rhythmic. Gorgeous and gentle. No wonder people designed apps with the sole purpose of playing ocean sounds to doze off to. It’s mesmerizing and comforting.
The last time I was camping, I was backpacking in Joshua Tree. Certainly no wave sounds there. It was dead silent. So silent you can hear yourself breathe, and it feels like the whole world can hear you, too. Listening in silence is a different story altogether, but listening to those Pacific waves was new to me.
They keep washing up and sliding back. The repetition speaks to some deep need for comfort in an unfamiliar place. It calls me back to other sounds I’ve heard in the night that have reminded me where and who I am.
As a kid, we took countless trips to visit my mom’s parents in southern Arkansas. They lived in a little town called Fordyce. Them and about 5,000 other people. Every night, at least for the duration of my younger years, Nana, my cousin, and I would pile into the bed in the pink bedroom. We called it that because of the old pink comforter and fringed pink pillows. Nana slept in there most nights since Big D, my grandpa, was such a heavy snorer. When Kole and I were in town, we slept in there with her. One of the things I remember most about those nights in the pink bedroom is the train that would pass through town, blowing its whistle as it went. Declaring its arrival.
To this day, train whistles take me back to those mostly sleepless nights crammed in the bed with Nana and Kole in the pink bedroom in Fordyce. The sound told me where I was, and also who I was. Train whistles tell me I am loved while away from home. That I am safe. That who I am in the night is still delightful and welcomed. Wrapped in the arms of my sleeping grandmother, it was hard to forget.
But the waves—what were they telling me that night in Carpinteria?
That I am home in the moment and in my body, though I may not be home in my physical location. That home is something more than beds and walls and cities and states. They declared an arrival of peace. Where there are wave sounds, I feel calm.
The waves washed up, retreated, and comforted the wanderings of my mind all night. There in my tent, they made sure I could hear them. They reminded me they were present—I wasn’t too far off to feel their affection. Maybe this was the greatest beauty of beach camping in Carpinteria. To be close enough to the ocean to hear it speak to me.
The next morning, we surfed. We drove ten minutes south and paddled out at Rincon Point. Unbeknownst to us, it’s a pretty famous spot. The “Queen of the Coast,” as it’s called. Rincon is known for its well-formed waves and long rides. Though I’m new to the surf game, I love it. I’ve been out a few times with various friends in different locations around Los Angeles—El Porto, San Onofre, and Venice.
But Rincon was different.
It was frigid, and I didn’t have any surf booties to keep my feet warm. Because of this, I didn’t last long. But Rincon was also smooth and light. The current was strong, but the waves were smaller, friendly. Crashing off the board at Rincon wasn’t the same as El Porto. It was gentler here. The sum of confidence required to attempt to learn was much less, and I wasn’t afraid to fail.
It was as if the waves were reaffirming their midnight message to me—you are here, and you are welcome. Declaring my arrival as something good and sacred.
Camping in Carpinteria, surfing at Rincon, and making new friends seemed like all I needed to make a choice in my life. I felt one step closer to being that adventurous, confident wilderness woman I so desperately wanted to be.
The weekend left me totally inspired. It stirred up this simple yet overwhelming joy at being alive and capable in my mind and body. I could do this more often, and I wanted to. I craved more drives up the Pacific Coast Highway, watching the sun glisten on the waves whipping in the wind. I longed for mornings with salty air and sun kissed cheeks. I dreamt of the beautiful conversations that always occur when I spend extended amounts of time with friends new and old.
When I got ready for bed on Sunday night at my apartment, I had the faintest wish that I was crawling into my sleeping bag again. I had my bed beneath me, but I thought only of my inflatable sleeping bad on the ground in my little tent. The place I found myself was not so far off from the person I dreamt of becoming. If I could lie in my bed and miss the feeling of the earth, wasn’t I closer to being a wilderness woman than I thought?
On Tuesday night, two days after I got home, I bought a surfboard. My very own—my very first. An 8-foot Wavestorm foamie. My dreams of who I wanted to be felt nice, and the Pacific Ocean felt even better. I’m deciding to be a doer, but the doing is powered by the dreaming. So I’ll keep that up, of course. Dreams will always flow from within me. So, too, I hope, will the actions inspired by them.
The balance of reflection and action is necessary and sweet. I am reminded of that now.
Perhaps camping in Carpinteria was a catalyst for the purchase of a surfboard. Or maybe it was the culmination of months of longing, of dreams, and the uncertainty that snuffed them out. So what if I’m not a good surfer yet? So what if I’m not all I want to be in this life? I am a constantly moving form, continuously being molded by the influences I surround myself with. Let me be more like the sea—vast and rhythmic, taking up space that is both shallow and deep. Holding its place in the world as it reflects both sun and moon in its curves and stillness alike.
Alexa Babin 
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