Note: I intended concluding my tribute to Mike Hynson this week but was derailed by the passing of my dear friend Lyn O’Rourke. Lyn, as some of you know, was the older sister of famed La Jolla surfer Chris O’Rourke. While not a surfer herself, Lyn understood the ways of wave riders better than most anyone. Part two of Hynson’s story will continue next week in Waterspot.
In 1981, my close friend Chris O’Rourke, once considered among California’s best surfers, died at age 22. Along with O’Rourke, much of my faith also passed away as I was among a group of believers who prayed fervently for his healing. I was unable to pray or believe as deeply as I previously had. It took years, but once I was able to process my grief, I wrote a few short stories about O’Rourke.
When I began a book on Windansea a few years ago, I knew it would be incomplete without revealing what I knew of Chris’ short life and courageous death. To fill in the gaps of my knowledge of her little brother’s childhood, I contacted Chris’ sister, Lyn. Lyn, a non-surfer, told me alternately sad, encouraging and endearing tales of her little brother’s battles that began with a dysfunctional childhood. Through surfing he proved victorious over all but the last battle.
In her 20s, Lyn had worked as a copy editor, and that was a position I desperately needed to fill for my upcoming book. After I hired her, we worked together for several months. She was invaluable in helping get my words in order and my story straight. She was living in New Jersey, but we regularly communicated over the phone, mostly about the book. As we became better acquainted, however, we also spoke about the agony and ecstasy of growing older. Because she had stage 4 cancer, I was never able to match her in the agony department, but I still managed to trouble her compassionate ear with my own litany of woes.
This is a difficult admission, but my favorite lines from our recently published “Windansea: Life. Death. Resurrection.” are not mine. They are hers. Reaching back to Chris’ childhood and Lyn’s early teens, the book concludes with her prophetic, poetic words:
“One late night in his childhood, Chris descended the stairs from the room he shared with his brother, Bart. I was up reading when I heard his tiny steps coming down the hall. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped. When I opened my door, there was little Chris bathed in startling moonlight. He was glowing in the reflection of the moon coming off the pool. I was struck by the scene’s beauty and did not move. He seemed to be looking up beyond the stars. I said, ‘Chrissie, what are you doing?’ He responded, ‘Oh, isn’t it beautiful, Lyn? I’m going there. Will you come with me?’ He did go, but he made it before me.”
After a valiant fight against cancer, Lyn suffered a major stroke that sent her into a coma from which she never recovered. It was as if her mission on earth had been accomplished after she spread words of hope and healing like Wednesday’s ashes to those who desire such baptism.
The endings of her and Chris’ chapters are not in the ending of their lives. They are more alive now than they ever have been, walking hand in hand in an indescribably beautiful paradise that many believe includes waves and books.
I now realize that Chris’ and Lyn’s passing from this life are not a defeat, but a victory. This is not the end, but the beginning. For our dear friends who are suffering, consider today your Good Friday. Sunday’s coming, and with it, resurrection.
