Closer and closer toward dawn patrol, I go.
If surfing was a person, I’d have dumped it by now. Fickle and hurtful, with no regard for my family, sweet one minute, spiteful the next – what kind of sick, co-dependent relationship is this? In all fairness, however, yesterday was all my fault. The ocean offered up the kind of waves I dream of – but my body failed to rise to the occasion. Too slow, too stiff, I fell when I should have landed, tumbled when I should have trimmed.
I tried, though – that must count for something – and the clumsiness wasn’t limited to the ocean. Once home, I knocked over a brand new bottle of rose water, spilling it all over the bathroom floor. Later, at work, I opened a co-workers manicure kit open too wide – I’d borrowed it to get a splinter out – and popped the metal bindings clear off. Fortunately, the radio station, the car and the people around me emerged from my sphere of influence unscathed.
Hoped the winds would turn south as predicted, but no such luck. Today’s swell sounds to be a bit sloppier than yesterday (even colder, too), but I’m up and ready to surf, and will take what I can get.