The lure of the sea. She exudes an inexorable, fragrant magic on those days when we have to see her. Feel her. Fill ourselves with her succulent ripeness. We want to be reminded of the beautiful contempt she wields. To be humbled by her grace willing to offer up a sacrifice.
The surf was junk but the sun sprayed silver and gold across the arch of the sky. The ribbons of light radiated off the water along the sand and we all breathed in its brilliance.
He raced to the water’s edge. Black wet suit, surfboard. A young man glowing; full of ‘no worries’ and ‘it’s all good’ manhood. Straight in. No contemplation or attempt to fathom if there were any rideable peaks.
