Marsh’s Surf Shop in Atlantic Beach and
Action Surf Shop in Morehead donated T-shirts, stickers, hats and rash guards. Clay
Bennett, a Florida surfboard shaper, gave us
an incredible deal on eight of the surfboards
we used for teaching. The other boards
were donated by Sharp and Jeff.
Despite many restless nights, my parents
provided unconditional moral support.
They encouraged me to pursue my goals
and helped in every way that they could.
The trust they had in my life decisions and
the way they shaped me had an important
impact on the Nicaragua project.
Ultimately, the support of the N.C. Fellows Program went far beyond financial aid.
Being a part of the N.C. Fellows community has been my most meaningful
experience at UNC. It has taught me
much about leadership, but also a lot about
myself. The diversity within our class
taught me to appreciate both my personal
history and my home while considering
new perspectives and ideas. By inspiring
me and challenging me to explore the way
that I think and the reasons that other people think differently, I grew into my own
person. This perspective on life, fostered by
the Fellows program, was the driving force
behind the surf camp in Nicaragua.
In the afternoons, after camp has finished, the other
instructors and I read in the hammocks until the hottest
part of the day is done. Then we surf past the setting sun,
until it’s so dark that we can hardly see the waves coming
in lines from a horizon we can no longer distinguish.
In the afternoons, after camp has finished and the girls have run home to complete their chores, the other instructors and
I read in the hammocks until the hottest
part of the day is done. Then we surf past
the setting sun, until it’s so dark that we
can hardly see the waves coming in lines
from a horizon we can no longer distinguish. After dinner, we drink Tona and Flor
de Cana, first trying to salsa and sing in
Spanish — understanding the dance and
language only through the dewy effervescence of ice and lime.
During the night, the heat settles in bed
with me. The rain pelts the tin roof and
sounds like an old Sandinista that I saw on
my first day in Managua. He held a tin jar
with a few coins, and he shook it and
mumbled, “For the love and charity of
Jesus your savior, help me.”
Coins, tin, sadness — that’s how the rain
sounds. When the power goes out, the fan
stops, and the heat creeps out from under the
sheets and the bed and from under my backpack, in the dusty corner. I think I could suf-
a gathering of
friends on a mission.
lower left are Jeff,
Abby, Andy, an
unidentified man and
At right, Elizabeth
and Sharp are on
another chicken bus,
headed for Granada.
focate, so I go outside to the well where the
frogs groan, out-screaming the rain.
In the morning, I wake up to piglets
sucking milk from their mothers. They
fight with each other, trying to get milk.