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A surf Spot in Time

February 27, 2015

It was a small day. A few people out. One a woman who is a lawyer who has an instructor have her nearly 80-year old mother on a surfboard with the instructor also on it, There were three other clueless women who couldn’t surf but were in the club that just wanted to walk around on land and do it. Pretty much a law in Santa Cruz, which has a strong women being women have a larger clue to appreciating the beauty of Santa Cruz more than the lesser priapic pronged males. So, they have to get some type of tattoo, a piercing somewhere,toe-ring, and have a surfboard tucked under their arm and look defiant.

Then it happened.

They all left. And I was alone on the spot all by myself,

There were a few waves, but nothing special. But what was out there, was the peace (Granted everything below me was trying to each other–well, you could say the same thing with every day we go into land searching for a paycheck or work. But I wasn’t in wither place, I was using them both, and found a window in the concrete wall of what reality can bring, and was out in the water, alone on the surfboard, on my spot.

There weren’t any clusters of women who didn’t know each other but used the place to be social and supportive, and yakked like they were Starbucks. There weren’t guys doing stupid hoots, or acting friendly so they could paddle around your left to get a wave. The look at the ocean like a recreation center, like a liquid skateboard park for rides. I wouldn’t have to see some clueless person angling soullessly across the wave. Or a surf instructor with five people. They live and work in a crowd, so they compete and play against crowds. They’re school fish.

And I heard was the ocean. The lapping over my board. The cawing of various birds. The waves hitting the shore. Commorants splashing. Sounds these people wiped out. Sounds they don’t hear. A pelican cruising low, then swooping with each curing dip in the surface to gain extra lift for a better glide, Sounds they talk over. And I could hear them again, like listening to a =n album you like by yourself, and looking around at the water, the way it rolled all around me and hit the shore with no one one it, and feeling like I had peeled away a bad coat of pain and discovered a masterpiece underneath it, and I was one of the brushstrokes. I’m in a window with an ocean view and I’m in the ocean with the view.

It was calming,

 

I was the only  person sitting my my church, and I didn’t have to pray to anyone or anything, I was looking for salvation, because this place had saved me.And beneath it all could be a fish that wanted to eat me. But if he tried, he had to deal with me. I had cancer and all this could have been taken away from me. And I fought the weakness of nerve damage from chemo, and was able to be out here again, trying to walk on the board with partially numbed feet and heavier legs, and trying to see it as that’s the way I walk now and live, so it will be normal. Funny, how I can spring up on a board in the surf, but on land, if I’m on the ground, I struggle to rise up. This place invgrates me to find other strength the land can;t give me. And mortality was the backdrop for every moment I experience that makes everything I see an overpowering force that overwhelms me with an expanding joy tempered by the muscle and bones of trying to make a living within it. But it was this place, these sounds, these sights, theses waves, and the sessions H ahd with my friends and how they shared their lives with me, and gave me insights I could never achieve by myself. It was this surf spot, this surfing life of choice that saved me and brought me the life I have now, If I never left the east coast, and had cancer again, I believe I would have died, because I did rise to the challenge of my dreams. And here I was wide-awake, smiling, feeling the heat of the sun, testicles lost from cancer, and being more of a man than I could be anywhere else.

I took a small wave and didn’t have to look to my left or right, or watch some person either intentionally paddle in front of me to block me from getting the wave, or taking off way left and trying to angle into me, or burn me down the lines. They were gone, doing something else. And I was here.

The only sound I hear was my surfboard entering the wave.

Someone else paddled out.

Then I left, leaned my board against the rock, looked up, and felt the heat of my the sun baking my face.

I got some of my spot back that day.

Hell of a surf session, huh?

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