The Atlantic heaves, rolling out big green walls of water, and riding one of them is a hippo—yes, a hippo—perched as if on a surfboard too small for its bulk. Ears flick like rudders, nostrils flare, and for one glorious instant this half-ton river horse leans forward just right, catching the curl like a pro from a Saturday morning cartoon. Spray arcs around it like confetti, and the sight is so absurd you almost expect it to throw a shaka sign with one stubby leg.

By the time your grin settles, the frame sharpens. This isn’t an animator’s doodle—it’s Loango National Park in Gabon, one of the few places where hippos actually wander into the Atlantic surf. By day they’re usually sunk in rivers and ponds, their backs slick with mud and their eyes just above the waterline, dozing through the worst of the heat. When evening comes, they haul out, great shadows grazing across the savanna under starlight. But here, uniquely, some take a detour: they leave the lagoons, step onto the beach, and lumber straight into the ocean, as if the day’s commute includes a stop at the shoreline.

In the saltwater, everything shifts. The ocean is denser than freshwater, lifting them higher, making them bob like corks instead of plowing like barges. For a few minutes, these unlikely surfers roll with the swells, rocking and tilting in a dance no zoologist ever thought to choreograph. Why do they do it? Researchers who study Loango’s biodiversity suggest it might be relief from biting flies, or the geography of rivers that spill directly onto the beach, blurring the line between pond and surf. Maybe it’s simply comfort—another way to cool skin that dries too fast under Africa’s punishing sun.

But whatever the reason, the ocean is only a cameo. Hippos can’t stay there. Their skin needs shade and humidity, their stomachs crave grass, not kelp. So by nightfall, they turn back inland. Mouths sweep fields, heavy bellies sway in the dark, and the ocean’s froth fades behind them like a half-remembered dream. The surf may be a thrill, but the rivers and plains are home.

Doesn’t that echo something about us? We can flirt with places not truly meant for us. We can dip into waters that feel thrilling, even liberating, but in the end our strength and nourishment come from where we belong. Just as Jehovah fixed boundaries for hippos—freshwater creatures with rare saltwater detours—he’s set boundaries for us, too. And when we respect those, we thrive.

Job 26:14 (NWT) reminds us: “Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a whisper has been heard of him!” Hippos riding the Atlantic surf remind us that every new discovery in creation is only the edge of Jehovah’s wisdom. What we’ve seen so far—no matter how wondrous—is just a whisper. There is always more to learn, more to marvel at, more to stir us to awe.