Written By: Isabella Shattenberg
Photo By: Zane Miller
It’s in moments of stillness, perched on a deserted beach in Baja, the sound of waves crashing in the distance and conversations
of faith in the foreground, that it becomes simple for us to recount the goodness of God. As the warmth of the morning light draws out the winter’s absence of freckles and sun-kissed hair, you sit — really, truly, simply — sit. And for the first time in a while, you feel a physical weight lifted off your shoulders. The stress begins to dwindle, and the quiet sinks in. You feel the sand beneath your toes and the cool breeze of Baja brush across your face. Drawn into the stillness of Christ, you recall the sweet peace that is found only in His presence. You are reminded of the preciousness of fellowship, the necessity of rest and the sanctity of stillness.
The heart posture behind these annual campouts is not only to collectively come together as a stoked body of Christians, but also to cultivate a safe space for God to move in every surfer’s heart. How better to touch the lives of surfers from all walks of life than to organize a remote surf campout down to the deserted beaches of Baja? Disconnected from our phones and the bearing demands of daily life, testaments of faith became real in a new and authentic way. In truth, the motivation behind many sign-ups lies in the allure of adventure. Yet, each and every year, a simple surf trip turns into a blessed weekend of outreach, restoration, and surrender; a planting of new seeds, a turning of the soil, and a promise of new life.
The Stillness of Baja
A little over 150 gathered around a dusty campfire. Some from as near as Oceanside, others as far as San Francisco, Florida, and
even Hawaii. The weekend was filled with rest and rejuvenation. We also scored some epic waves. We enjoyed enriching conversations under starlit skies and listened attentively to the voice of God through campfire testimonies. The weekend sparked a desire in me and others alike to not only meet the Lord in the stillness of beautiful Baja, but also to surrender the individual burdens we had.
The CS team worked hard to centralize the campout on the theme of provision, and what a testament it was to witness the Lord’s
hand at work in both the intricate facets and unexpected blessings of our time. We were gifted with clear sunny skies, a holy sense of protection, a delicious catch of fresh Bonita, and a miraculous return of stolen, well-overused porta-potties.
Reminiscing on the events of the campout, I am reminded of John 15:1-2. “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit. While every branch that does bear fruit, He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” John 15:1-2 serves as a constant reminder of our inherent need for Christ and the growth that stems from it. Yet, an overlooked step in the stages of pruning is the surrender that seeds it. It is the selfless act of dying to oneself and humbly kneeling before the Lord. In the same way, the branch must submit to the vine, so must we submit to the gardener.
Pruning in Our Lives
The act of surrender does not merely require laying one’s burdens down. It is a daily call to give of what you do not have — requiring a trust in the Lord’s Sovereignty that surpasses all understanding.
He is the vine, we are the branches; apart from Him, we are nothing (John 15:5). Too often, our busy schedules stray us away from the inherent need to simply rest in the stillness of Christ. The pruning is necessary for the first buds of fruit to form.
The Cold Water Campout gave way for such pruning to take place in each surfer’s life. God met us in the water. He dined with us around the campfire. And sat perched by our side on the dunes. As we surrender to the Lord, may we trust in the provision of His hand. May we see the faithfulness of His promises and the goodness of His grace. And, may we step into 2026 with expectation and a deeper yearning to bask in the stillness of Christ.
For more information about national campouts, click here.