The Paddle Out

On February 20, 2011 at Pensacola Beach, Florida on the first warm weekend of spring, a group of hundreds of surfers participated in a “paddle out” to honor a lost friend.


Sixty year-old Yancy Spencer III died of a heart attack he suffered while doing what he so loved to do.

This group of people on surfboards, kayaks and paddleboards ranged from the very young – perhaps 9 or 10 years old to those in their 70’s.  We on the shore watched in silent wonder – not knowing the ritual but certainly understanding it.

The surfers convened at one area of the beach near the pedestrian bridge starting late in the morning.  By 2:00 p.m. there were hundreds of surfboards stuck in the sand standing upright in what looked like a village that had sprouted up for the day.  Since the Gulf waters were cold, most wore wet suits but they donned the carefree look of surfers with already tanned skin as if they had been out already warming up for this season.  Many were hugging each other, both in sadness at the loss of a friend and in melancholy joy seeing each other now that the chill of winter was off the sand.

As the surfers gradually paddled out to the boat situated just beyond the end of the pedestrian bridge that was now filled with droves of spectators, they drifted past small children playing at the shore for the first time this year.

They passed by teenage and young adult couples splashing cold water on each other, screaming like seagulls as the 65 degree water splashed against their warm naked backs.

They did not look at the swimmers or the people like us standing at the shore.  They paddled out, many carrying small bouquets of flowers – roses, mums, poinsettias, that they would use in the ceremony.  They just looked ahead to their destination – a circle they would form around a boat where the ceremony would be hosted.  They were I am sure, thinking about their lost friend.  I had never heard of him, but as the day progressed I knew him more and more.  We would have been friends.

The ceremony began with an airplane encircling the surfers after they gathered in their own circle.  It swooped down three times and then changed its direction, swooping directly over the mourners one final time.

Then someone spoke from the boat, but I could only imagine what was being said because nothing could be heard from where I stood on the shore.  Many times there was a tumultuous roar as the surfers yelled, slapped the water and held up their paddles in some cultural ritual I did not know.

As perhaps the seventh or eighth roar occurred, rose petals began to approach the shore.  As each wave came in, more flower petals appeared.  The children ran into the shallow water, picked them up laughing with joy as they identified each kind, made gardens in the sand and brought flowers to their mothers.

I thought to myself that out of respect the children should not be playing in the water.  Some of the mothers said, “No, put them back.  They are not for us.”

Then I thought to myself that they are for us.  That is what this surfer would want.  If he were as kind and familial as his friends are then yes, the children should take the flowers to play with and pass around. And most certainly, they should play in the Gulf waters while he is being honored.

As the surfers paddled or rode the small waves back to shore I was already on my way back to the parking lot, rinsing off my feet in the shower, putting my flip-flops back on.  I was happy to have been able to view the ceremony.

As trite as is sounds, it is something I will always remember.  I have always considered the Gulf my friend.  Again, it has endeared itself to me as clearly it has so to many others.