I see Jesus in Huntington Beach, in California. It's just after 10 in the morning, and we are in a parking lot. He's smaller than I had imagined. But He looks good: fit, tanned. I can't say I'm surprised. As if Jesus isn't gonna have a tan. As if Jesus isn't gonna be walking out of the ocean on a weekday morning before the marine layer burns off and the sun reminds you that Orange County is really just a desert with fantastic sprinkler technology. As if He's not going to be there before it gets too crowded to see the sand through all the synthetic-fibered beachwear.
Pretty much immediately it occurs to me: this might be a sign. After all, when it comes to action sports, Southern California is something like the promised land, and I'm on something like a pilgrimage. Well, maybe "pilgrimage" is too strong a word. A journey? No, "journey" connotes struggle, and possibly that song "Faithfully." A fact-finding mission? Yes, that's it. But without the facts.
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