Oh, how I long to wake ere the sun.
Sliding gently into the oceans silky arms,
before she lays her morning gaze.
Together we can watch her wake,
while you hum against the shore.
And I can dance,
with you.
Along the rolling green,
The perfect blue.
The ocean is my salvation, the place I feel home. Growing up, my dad would take me down to the beach in the evenings. We’d watch the sun slip behind the shore and swim beyond the break. He would always tell me how safe I was, and I felt it. I would run full speed into waves, tumbling over and springing up, cackling as saltwater spluttered from my mouth and nose. We would carry an old yellow-stained surfboard down to the beach and ride foamies to the sand.
The ocean is as wild as she is free and as powerful as she is soft. I am at peace when she is calm, and afraid when she roars. I love the feeling of fear, a reminder of how alive I am, how mortal. Sometimes I lay in the oceans belly, screaming, laughing hysterically, while she throws walls of rumbling water towards me.
Surfing is the intimate encounter of her sublime. Sometimes the wind howls so fiercely that white horses dance backwards over themselves, creating half-moons of salty spray. Sometimes the sun tints the sky pink, radiating heat that glistens over the sea like an oil painting. Sometimes when it’s raining, the water turns to a grey-blue, and each drop from the sky feels as if the whole universe is kissing you. Sometimes dolphins swim by like planets in outer space.
Surfing is empowering, feeling the flow of the ocean. It allows me to fall, often, but nothing makes me feel more like a woman than a graceful dance with the weight of a wave behind me.
