Just another week and I should be able to set my board on the water and paddle out. To cope with my current lack of surfability, I’ve haunted the beaches anyway, doing surf checks and feeling my skin tingle with delight when I see long lefthanders peeling off the point or welcoming waves slapping onto the sand.
To feel that anticipation and that static electricity a surfer feels before jogging down the beach to the break is addictive. Today I could see it on about fifty different faces: gotta get out, gotta get out, gotta get out. Wetsuits were dragged on and boards were whipped by a lump of wax. Gotta get out. There was a storm coming. A rainbow graced the break and shone on a SUP rider charging the waves better than any I’ve ever seen, reminding me yet again that I am yet to try SUP. A family of five arrives. Little girl in a wetsuit with her baby belly poking outwards. Blonde hair in pigtails. Dad the leader – first in and first to catch a wave, also the first to crash in a flurry of white water and soaring longboard.
I stand on the shore. Waiting. Healing. Stoked. I’m there on that point break. You just can’t see me. I’m pushing my weight onto my leading foot and looking down the line, setting up for a turn (and inevitable fail). I’m out there. Riding the storm surf. It won’t be long until I kiss the ocean again.