I wanted to turn around and talk to Peter in the row behind me, but my neck was beginning to cramp from staring at the stage for so long. Before Jackson Gallerman was halfway through his speech, I had plucked all the t-shirt fuzz off of the back of my name tag. Its bold, playful letters read, “Hello! My name is Caleb Windsor.” Mr. Gallerman was almost the thirtieth speaker trying to inspire the students and me. After the tenth speaker, it was only reruns of the first season. Even though many of them have been around disabled students before, only a few have had personal experience with major disabilities. Those few are the ones who can really motivate kids to go after their dreams.

I had about thirty minutes left to occupy myself. If I pulled even one crumb of the crumbly foam out of my wheelchair seat, there was no chance of Mom buying me the electric version I desired for my birthday in May. I needed to keep my current mode of transportation in good condition so we’d be able to sell it in order to afford a new one.

After finding sixty-two words in our school name, Ryder’s Institute for Disabled Youth, which waved on a blue banner above the stage, I needed a different distraction. Three long minutes later, I discovered I couldn’t communicate telepathically with Peter. But even more than I wished to stretch the capabilities of the average human mind, I wished to stretch the bone, skin and tendons that are my elfish feet. Everyone tells me that I’m incredibly lucky not to have suffered any more than I have from my birth defect. I get it. From their point of view, I’m doing fine without walking and riding a bike and playing baseball but it’s hard not to wish that I could. Both of my feet are about the size of a smart phone, from the backs of my heels to the tips of the four toes on each foot. I share a lack of stability and a small shoe size with an infant. My left foot is rotated almost ninety degrees outwards, which is the main reason why I’ve only taken thirty-six steps in the twelve years and eleven months of my life.
My parents have been marking an honest record of these accomplishments on the thin rings of the palm tree that sways beside a foamy sea in my bedroom. Large waves arouse the water near the tree by kicking and dragging anything and anyone out of its path that would be brave enough to take advantage of its sheer magnitude and power. Nevertheless, a surprisingly gentle slope of glass managed to sneak out of the whirling, white avalanche of water behind it. The next set of waves arrive in quick succession. They growl from deep inside their reflective coat. Like a protective steed racing forward to save the day, the waves’ blue bodies ripple with strength and their colorless manes flick back and forth with their determination to end the battle against the bigger, darker, manipulative surf.
The clear sky is a palette of pinks, purples and oranges. A glowing, deep red sun peeks out from over the horizon. Sparkles shoot out of its unblinking eye, creating a glamourous, waving carpet for the stars.
My father painted all of this when I was a baby on a mural that spanned across three of my bedroom walls.
It formed a dream for me.
My number one goal.
But how could I achieve it?
How could I ever learn to surf?
I must’ve dozed off daydreaming because I didn’t notice Peter trying to catch my attention until he started tickling the back of my neck with the cold fingers of his prosthetic.
“Woah, Pete! You’re giving me the chills,” I said as I shivered in my wheelchair.
“Sorry, Caleb. I’m just so bored. I want to go play basketball. Maybe if I practiced more than four hours every day, I’d get somewhere with all of my training,” Peter complained.
“C’mon don’t think like that. Everyone knows you’re the best player in the whole town, if not that, then all of Rhode Island!” It’s true that Peter has unexplainable skills at the popular sport, “At least there are professional wheelchair basketball teams. I’ve never even heard of a program that teaches surfing to people who can’t even walk on their own.”
We sighed.
Peter started, “Maybe your Speaker Request will be granted next week,” I tried to argue back quietly so no teachers would overhear us but Peter continued, “We both submitted our requests in November six months ago. My speaker came in five weeks ago, yours is bound to come in soon. Don’t worry.”
Thankful pleasure became my smile but my eyes expressed desperation and longing, “Thanks Peter, we’ll just have to see.”
Peter nodded curtly and I turned back around to face Mr. Gallerman who was finally concluding his speech.
“In a few years, I’ll hope to see some of you at the Regional Care Hospital looking for an internship with me in pediatrics. Ask for Jackson Gallerman because I’d love to be the person who helps to turn your dreams into reality! Thank you.”
After everybody applauded, chaos was born and the teachers did their best to control the mayhem of students pushing to exit the auditorium. Next step, dismissal. The worst part of every day. Not because we had to abandon the textbooks, calculators and impatient teachers, but because most of the student body was in wheelchairs so you can only imagine how long it takes to load the buses. An hour and a half later, I was home. Three hours after that, I was asleep.
The following week was a blur of color and dreams, all influenced by the hope that my speaker would come next Thursday. I visited Peter’s house every day after school. We designed a super high-tech pair of sneakers that allows you to feel as if you are walking on air - or water depending on how you look at it. It ran from baby sizes all the way to the largest male measure to accommodate any wearer. We even researched the basic science required to make our brain child function properly. By Wednesday, we sent the plans out to Apple and Nike with the sliver of shining hope that the two of us would make millions. Talk about dreaming!

By the time I rolled on my wheelchair into Thursday, I had completely forgot about the extraordinary possibility that a surfer from the world of waves and wind might visit our school. The speaker could provide me with priceless information and a surplus of inspiration. Once I found a camp that had the right professionals to help me learn the art and grace (well, maybe not grace) of surfing, all I’d need would be a miracle. I knew it was going to be a long and difficult struggle to stand up on a surfboard since I had almost no ability to walk in the first place. Even so, I yearned to surf the ocean waves. I longed to be in the vast ocean that hugs you to show it has control but I was currently left to enjoy the air conditioned mini bus on my journey to RIDY.
“Thank you Ms. Stine,” I recited after the thousandth time the middle-aged woman secured me to the wheelchair lift, the only logical method for me to exit the bus.
The wide hallways of the middle school allowed me to maneuver my wheelchair with ease. I had to switch rooms for lunch and Thursday assemblies but other than that, I stayed in the same room the entire day. It’s much easier for the teachers to change classrooms at the bell rather than us students who would have a difficult time in wheelchairs. At the start of each day, I glided into my place behind a desk in room 28. I continued etching my name into its light wood grain starting from the letter ‘E’ which is where I left off yesterday. After fourteen pages of notes and a school lunch that tasted as good as salami flavored ice cream, Mr. Perez’s voice crackled to life over the loudspeaker to announce the speaker who was coming today.
“Good afternoon, everyone. As you are all aware, we have a guest speaker coming to visit our school today. She is here to help each and every one of you turn your dreams into reality. She is an experienced surfer from the Helping Hands, Helping Waves Camp with an incredible story to share with you. We will begin entering the assembly room shortly, as the speaker is on her way here now. Thank you,” Mr. Perez finished.
I could imagine him nodding his head atop his elongated body as I know he does after he is done speaking. I could also imagine the ocean. A surfer was coming, the school board read my request, finally! I didn’t even have to try to make my eyesight cloud over like I was lifting my eyelids underwater to picture my miniscule feet sinking into the sand made of flour then myself perched on a surfboard being whisked along by warm waves spraying sea foam on my back.
I spent the next ten minutes ranting on to Peter, who was thrilled to share my gaiety in anticipation for the surfer speaker.
“Pete, you were right! Wow I can’t believe they finally read my Speaker Request,” I smiled and laughed and my gut began to ache and then I laughed and smiled some more.
“I’m so happy for you, Mr. Caleb Windsor, surfer-to-be! Mr. Perez said that she is from the Helping Hands, Helping Waves Camp, right? That’s near the Northern beaches so no wonder we’ve never been there before.”
Our class had started to head to the auditorium so I was occupied with the task of hand-rolling my wheelchair. If I wasn’t, I’d knock my own head for not knowing that there was a camp in such close proximity to our quaint town on the middle shores of the Southern beaches of Rhode Island.
“It’s that close? I need to get some forms for this camp!” I said in an accent unlike my own.
Peter smiled, experiencing some of my excitement, and whispered, “Let’s hear what this girl has to say. Look, she’s walking in now,” he pointed to the double doors on the side of the auditorium and there she was.
Most guys would describe her as modelesque, and even though that was perfectly true, I saw the wavy-haired woman as a mentor. I didn’t know her name, I didn’t know how to surf, I did know how to float in the water and I know how strongly I wanted to learn to surf.
The disciplined student body hushed quickly when the speaker stepped up to the podium. A warm, glowing smile graced her face but her eyes were astonishingly dull and washed out. The surfer introduced herself as Veronica Blaker, survivor of lung cancer. The entire room of people sympathized with her when she recounted her miraculous recovery. After one lung transplant surgery and the removal of her other lung, Veronica thought she’d never get up on a surfboard again.
“The doctors caring for me were aware of my passion for the sport and they found the Helping Hands, Helping Waves Camp for me. I was so lucky that I survived my battle with cancer and my parents were so elated when I told them about my opportunity to leave our home in Delaware to go surf in Rhode Island,” Veronica paused to catch her breath, “even if it would never be at the same level I had achieved before my cancer diagnostic. We left our home and relocated a few miles inland from the Northern beaches. All of you are very lucky to live so close to the Northern beaches as well. I’m sure I’ll see some of you at our next camp session in June,” she strolled of the stage and yanked a thick stack of papers out of her bag, “While I pass out these forms, does anyone have any questions?”
I didn’t raise my hand. I was in too deep a thought to concentrate on a solitary idea. Everything around me seemed to cast off a fluorescent glow, calling me to utilize it to its fullest potential. Pointed pencils, rounded soap bars and gentle waves. Peter handed me the forms for the camp and I passed all but one to the person on my right. Then I read through the paragraphs of information on my lap, absorbing all the details like a sponge does water.
Veronica Blaker just introduced me to a new world. She gave me the key to reach my goals. No matter how rough the journey is going to be, I will learn to surf.


I started the day off with a bowl of cereal in milk. No. A bowl of milk in cereal. Whoops. Milk and cereal in a bowl. That’s right. I’m sick. What a great way to start off my surfing expedition! Other than watching television, I mostly dreamt about riding the waves while all my friends were sitting through classes at RIDY.
Mom had no hesitations when she signed me up for the Helping Hands camp. She gave a call to the director of the program and they spoke for over an hour about the type of staff members, equipment and accommodations for the children in wheelchairs. All of the personnel were certified in the utmost level of lifeguarding and CPR. The surfboards used at the camp were special in the fact that they curl upwards on the rims instead of downwards so the children with not much balance do not roll off the side when paddling onto a wave. A pathway stretches out from the camp grounds to the point on the shore where the waves can only lick your toes so wheelchairs can be moved over the sand to the shoreline. The camp does not provide transportation but mom is more than willing to drive me the forty minutes to and from for the two week program.
I knew this was going to be a big step in my life, literally, and it was going to cost a hunk of cash. To gain some, you’ve got to give some. I had to relinquish something I wanted.
“Thank you so much mom, for letting me go to this camp. I know it’s expensive and I want to show my gratitude to you,” I stopped for a moment, preparing to forget, “by letting go of the electric wheelchair I asked for as my thirteenth birthday present.”
“Caleb, you don’t have to do that,” Mom pleaded.
“Yes I do, and I know you have to say that being you’re my mother and all,” I smirked knowing I was right.
Mom sighed and tilted her head down at me, smiling. I smiled back. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need to use my current wheelchair as often after the surfing camp because I was going to practice my walking skills on top of my novice surfing skills. For six hours a day, five days a week, two weeks at the end of June after school ended for the year, my surfing knowledge will develop and maybe I’ll even do well on the waves.
I waited and waited for almost two months. My birthday went by, no new electric wheelchair on the sixteenth of May but I was one short month away from surf camp at the Northern beaches. Peter actually seemed jealous when I told him the good news that I would be attending the great program because he wasn’t able to go as well. He wouldn’t be able to surf without his prosthetics. When he was five years old, Peter was in a serious car crash that led to paralysis of his right arm and leg. Instead of suffering through that his whole life, his parents chose for his right limbs to be replaced so at least he would have control over them.

I was beginning to take control over my feet. In an effort to prepare for surfing, I practiced taking steps next to the beach scene in my bedroom. I was actually getting the hang of it! It was so much easier than I thought it would be. Though I was walking slow and had to lean on the wall for reassuring balance, my awkward, sideways gait progressed. I took too many steps to keep recording them on the rings of the palm tree.
After Peter got over the fact that I was going to surf without him, he called me up to tell me that he would help me out, “Hi, Caleb, do you want to come over and play some basketball at my house? I know you don't have a basketball wheelchair, but you can be the ball boy and practice walking around by picking up the balls for me. It’s a win-win type of thing.”
“Yeah, that’d be great! I’ll be over soon,” I said before hanging up.
I let Mom know I was leaving before heading out in my wheelchair to Peter’s house across the street. I began to feel nervous to walk in front of someone else, even if it was my best friend. We played basketball until the sun descended below the skyline. Peter was panting, I was sweating, but we both felt very accomplished. Peter made a half-court shot from his wheelchair and I only fell on the concrete once. Even though I did stumble a great number of times, it wouldn’t be fair to compare my stability to a baby’s anymore. Agility was a whole other ball of wax; which I didn’t have.

Thursdays went by, so did Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and all the other days of the week. Except this Monday was going to be different. I woke up at eight o’clock and my excitement was the only thing keeping me from falling back to sleep for another three hours. I flung a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into an old drawstring bag which I draped over the handles of my wheelchair. Then I threw in some other various items like a towel, sunscreen and a baseball hat. I slipped on a swimsuit and pulled a brand new rash guard over my head. Mom and I left early and we didn’t run into any traffic on the way to the Northern beaches. When we pulled into the parking lot at the Helping Hands, Helping Waves Camp, we weren’t the only ones going for the handicapped parking spots.
“Mom it’s fine, we don’t need a handicap spot. Just go over there if that’s alright,” Mom agreed with me, she knew I’d be fine going the extra distance.
One we were parked in the lot, Mom helped me out of the car and she set up my wheelchair for me. I rolled over to the entrance and a man named Michael showed me over to a big tent where the other kids were situated. I waved goodbye to Mom and for the first time I fully realized that I was about to surf. I was about to surf.
By the time everyone arrived at the camp, I was in total jitter mode. My insides were shaking with anticipation and I hoped that no one thought I came from a mental asylum. About ten of the thirty kids at the camp were in wheelchairs and I could tell that the rest had other physical impediments as well.
Michael and fifteen other instructors helped us all over the boardwalk onto the sand. Then we stretched out before going over some basic rules and guidelines for the ocean.
An instructor named Emily started off by saying, “We have already clarified with your parents and guardians that you know how to swim, or at least stay afloat in the water. The waves at this beach are the perfect size for anyone of any body to learn how to surf. It’s low tide now so everyone will get comfortable with the ocean before high tide. You won’t even notice the difference between the waves by then!”
Michael took a while to explain basic surfing etiquette and some very important policies. Such as, “questions are questions because you are supposed to ask them” and “you pee in your toilet, not the ocean.”
The real enjoyment started when we got off our wheelchairs and were given a new object to move us, surfboards. Mine was a tattered, scratchy foam plank the color of bananas. I ran my palms up and down its rough surface, mesmerized by its size and weight. The instructors moved through the rows of learners and their boards helping them to perfect the skill of “popping up.” On my first attempt, I toppled over onto the fine, white sand which stuck to my arms and legs, but I didn’t mind. The casual mood shared by everyone helped me to get back up again. Then the instructor, Garet, who was assisting me, told me something interesting.
“The only thing that might cause you to have a harder time getting up on the board is the size of your feet. Your right foot is on the back of the board, and your left foot is rotated, so it is always facing forward, which is what everyone has to do anyways. You might not agree with me, but Caleb, you actually lucked out!”
I just stared at him, wide-eyed in surprise. But what do you know? Once Garet told me that, I realized that I did have an easier time popping up onto the surfboard. The coaches spent a long time teaching us how to stand up, probably because most of the kids couldn’t do that on solid ground. By the time everyone got the hang of it, the sun was almost directly overhead and my pores were leaking sweat like a broken faucet. I couldn’t wait to try popping up in the ocean.
Michael, Emily, Garet and the other instructors led us down the rest of the boardwalk to the point where the water laps on the sand. I wrapped the Velcro board leash snugly around my right ankle and hauled the hulking surfboard toward the water. My senses heightened when the refreshing water touched my feet, even more when it reached my knees and then my navel. I felt as if I were walking - not rolling - through a dream.
Sunlight glistened all across the ocean, changing its hue from the average blue to a magnificent turquoise. The sand under my small feet was so incredibly soft, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was imported from the Caribbean. I paused to gaze at the blue sky but right as I looked up, whitewater crashed into me. I lost my grip on the foam surfboard and fell underwater. A drowned out rumble echoed above me and I squeezed my eyes shut, arms flailing all around me, my feet and legs searching aimlessly for the security of the powdery sand but failing to grab hold of it. My surfboard was riding the wave, except I was being dragged along subaqueous. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I opened my mouth but only managed to swallow a gulp of salty water. I needed to breathe in oxygen. My airways were contracting, drying out, shrinking.
This can’t be happening! I need to surf. I came here to surf, not drown.
Rushing water popped in my ears and I felt warm hands grasp me from above. My rescuers pulled me out from under the water and wonderful air embellished my lungs. My heart beat fast and I could hear blood pulsing through my veins, which sounded all too well like rushing water. Reality hit me. I never thought I’d get hurt in the one place I wanted to be the most.
“Hey Caleb! Are you okay?”
“Is he breathing?”

“Can you hear me Caleb?”
“Caleb!”

I opened my eyes and steadied myself on my surfboard, which one of the instructors had brought over to me. Everyone smiled softly at me. These people who I just met were so worried about me. I must’ve been underwater for a long time.

I had to let my saviors know I was alright, “I’m okay. Thank you so much. Hey, where did the waves go?”

Some of the other kids laughed but the instructors still looked distraught.

One of the older coaches, Kimber, said, “You were underwater for an entire set of waves. There were four waves in the set. See that swell out there?” she pointed out in the ocean to where the sea creatures thrive, “That’s the first wave of the next set.”

I spotted the bulge of water. It was a considerable distance away from me, maybe far enough that it would curl at just the right moment so I could catch it from here. I politely took my board from the hands of the instructor holding it and everyone watched me as I paddled away.
Some people might call me crazy, but it’s passion on a wave that I’m after.
While I was waiting for the wave to reach me, I straddled the board and spun around so I was facing out to sea. I created mini whirlpools in the water next to me with my mini feet and admired the mini marshmallow clouds spread out across the sky like paint dabs on a painter’s tray. I lowered my gaze from the sky and noticed the swell was closer and growing taller. I abandoned my sitting position on top of the surfboard and rested my body across its center.
I looked toward the cluster of instructors watching me and almost asked their opinion on me trying to catch this wave. I decided against their question asking policy. To make this attempt at a ride amazing, I wanted to do it all on my own. If I could actually pop up while being pulled along by such a strong force on my first try, that would satisfy two weeks at this fantastic camp.
I arranged my body on the scratchy, used board and placed my hands directly under my shoulders. Then I straightened my arms and arched my back, turning around to determine when to begin paddling to the shore.
“Oh my gosh, it’s here!” I muttered to myself.
I started paddling automatically once I saw how near the wave had come to me. I could feel the small splatters of mist on my neck from the wave which had begun to break at its top. I didn’t look back at the wave, afraid that fear would get the best of me. To drop out of the pull that had started to take hold of the board and me would be admitting defeat. I wanted to win.
I couldn’t help but notice all of the whitewater piling up on my left and right through my peripheral vision. Unconsciously I slowed my paddling and the power of the wave took over the job. But I wasn’t done yet. I still had to stand up on the slippery foam board.

I knew I couldn’t get up in one smooth shot but I decided to go through the motions one by one. I drew my left foot forward so it was centered but slightly behind my hands. Then I pivoted my back foot and turned my body to the right. On land, I’d look like I were in the lunge position, stretching. I moved my hands over the board’s surface to balance my body. Now the most difficult part, popping up. This step had to be performed swiftly, hence the name, popping up. I didn’t even have much time left before I hit land so I went for it.

Scrrrr, buuppp! My nails scraped the foam and I jumped up, landing unsteadily on the surfboard. I was squatting very low to stay balanced, but indeed I was balanced. My world was in harmony and so was my surfboard as I willed it forward. It sung as it sliced through the ocean, revealing fair colored sand beneath the foamy sea. My peers cheered for me from farther out in the ocean and I cheered too. When I had to catch my breath, it wasn’t because I was drowning. It was because thrill does that to a person. It holds you down and forces you to examine the world from a new perspective. My newest point of view is from atop a surfboard with sea spray on my back.

I started out on a wheelchair. My feet were a burden, but now they are the things that help me walk. A dream helped me form my life and it changed as I walked. But I don’t need to walk anymore.

I am able to surf.