Body Surfing

I'm a winter away from summer, my darkest hour and thinking. When I'm living my life properly – freely- the feeling is like body surfing. In the beginning, there is a dull calm as I watch the swells roll in. I pick a swell, I trust will become a wave, usually the third swell. It comes and I swim for it. I pull and draw with head down and nose rolling clean for air. I'm swimming for speed to match the wave. It's work. I forget – almost – I'm pulling for a wave. Then the world rises beneath like the hand of Poseidon and pushes me forward. It moves too fast, I'm worried it will roll by me and kick me out the back. I sprint kicking white foam, pulling deep and hard. The wave has me, I'm satisfied a moment, then the wave hurls me forward and it's easy and calm – effortless speed. Too much speed suddenly as the wave draws to shallow water and becomes tall and sharp. Fear, a knowing of what comes next, the beach arrives. I'm spiked to the sand and sucked into a chaos of water, a bubble of rocks, sand and salt water. I'm worked in Poseidon's laundromat. It hurts. The sand knicks and cuts. I rise from the spent wave, knees bleeding a little. I'm stunned a moment, standing there a fool with the crotch of my suit filled with a lump of sand that makes me look like a soiled child in diapers. Then, I feel unblocked joy. That hurt! Do it again!