Rain is softly pattering outside as the low moves over the mainland. I sit at my desk, organizing my thoughts for the days toil. But I keep slipping back to feelings of paddling through ocean swells. I surfed three days straight. The first day in stormy overhead peaky surf, the fog so thick that the usual indicators were hidden on shore, forcing me to sit closer to the boils on the takeoff zone than I’m comfortable doing. A few late drops combined with several beatings made for some good cleansing after a weeks work. As the fog lifted in the early afternoon it let the onshore winds in like opening the flood gates, killing any hopes for those that waited.
On Sunday I rose an hour before my alarm was set. I was on the road by six, trying to make it to the lookout spot by first light at six seventeen. The fog still present but not dense enough to ward off the southwest winds, I coasted down the hill and up the coast looking for shelter and size. Nothing. Finally, I drove back to where I should have started and found an inside section perfectly sheltered and peeling. Mostly chest high with a few head high sets, I shared the drifty peaks with a small crew as they rinsed the previous night’s revelries by immersing themselves in the still icy cold Atlantic.
Yesterday the receding swell granted me another small window of opportunity. This time the waist high waves came scant, but clean and perfect as they wrapped into the bay. Just two friends and I shared the little jewel. Off in the distance we would see the plumes of breaking waves over a shallow reef. In the bay the wind was calm and the sky overcast. The grey light making it so that the steely colour of sea surface and grey clouds blended, camouflaging the tiny pulses until they hit the cobblestone bottom and stood for a second before crumbling into mellow shoulders. I surfed for over two hours, mostly on the eggy thruster which at 5’10” and foiled makes me feel like I can turn like never before.
On the bus ride to work this morning I stood and held on to the railing and the bus bobbed up and down on soft air shocks over the winter’s rain filled potholes. I could feel the muscles on my back and shoulders repairing after so much paddling. I look around the bus and wonder how many of my fellow passengers communed with the elements. I sincerely hope that the number is higher than my cynicism will allow me to guess at. I don’t feel disdain or pity for them if they are sedentary. I only wonder why? Why would we live in these amazingly tuned and functioning bodies and not learn to use them to move through space with the grace of birds and fish? And why did I leave my bike at work forcing me to take this blasted bus.
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