It reminds me why we came to Port Isabel in the first place.

You can’t stop the waves.
Not the Gulf waves rolling in at South Padre.
Not the waves of grief after my mother passed.
Not the waves of strained relationships.
Not the waves of doubt that still try to visit at 3 a.m.

You can’t stop them.

But you can learn how to surf.

When Melody and I first began spending our winters here, I thought we were escaping something. Cold weather. Noise. Routine.

What I learned instead is this:
You don’t outrun waves.
You build balance.

Port Isabel became more than sunshine and palm trees. It became training ground. Just like the dojo in Effortless Power, where strength isn’t about force but alignment. Just like the daily reflections in Stillness in the Storm, where calm isn’t the absence of waves — it’s presence in the middle of them.

The waves didn’t stop.
But something in me changed.

In No Grapes in Grateful, I wrote about bitterness being a choice we don’t have to keep making. The tide may bring debris, but it also brings renewal. In A Season in the Sun, I captured how this stretch of coast taught us to breathe deeper, slow down, and love more intentionally.

The Gulf has a rhythm.
So does marriage.
So does healing.
So does faith.

Some days the water is glass.
Some days it’s churning.

But here’s what I’ve learned watching the horizon with Melody beside me:

The wave that looks like it will knock you down
can become the one that carries you forward
— if you stop fighting it.

At nearly 70, I don’t need the ocean to calm down.
I need my center to stay steady.

That’s the work.
That’s the writing.
That’s the life.

You can’t stop the waves.

But you can learn how to stand, breathe, trust —
and ride them all the way in.