Bastards! Look at them! Carving it up. Pushing boundaries, defying physics. Manic grins on their salty faces. At one with nature. Able, for a time, to use her power for their own purpose. Aware that they will never tame her. They fly. Sometimes completely engulfed, crouching within the living mass of urgent water. Adrenalin pumping. Praying it doesn't close out now………

To re-emerge triumphant, at speed, back up the face, a trail of spray arcing like a dancing tail, behind.

It's my first time and I'm not so sure. Like all first times, tentative. Wanting to succeed. Struggling for precarious balance, lying prone on the board, neck arched too far back, paddling. Not unlike an injured turtle, struggling to make way. Shark bait. The others zoom ahead, making it look easy… It isn't. They, of course, know the tricks. They're ‘in the zone'. I'm definitely not, but I fight on, courageously wishing that I could learn it all instantly. A Matrix type ‘download' would be superb.

The wave, when it comes, is huge. A towering mountain of rushing power, bearing down at breakneck speed. I watch the others expertly duck-dive their boards and I prepare to do the same.

The ocean however, has other plans. In an instant I am pitched bodily through the air, slammed, battered, bounced, and rolled mercilessly underwater. Lungs bursting with silent scream. Which way is up? The brain at the edge of panic, yet, in the same instant, clearly and succinctly questioning fragile mortality.

“Why are you doing this?” it questions nonchalantly.

 Precious life giving air! So often taken for granted. The ocean warns the uninitiated that she is not to be trifled with. The leg rope tugs insistently as the borrowed board heads for home, not wanting to share the ocean with one so obviously inexperienced.

Finally, ‘out the back'. Oh, yes. I know the terminology. Appreciate the art form. It's the execution of it that eludes me. Completely inept. It's not my fault. I grew up in the distant desert, surfing sand dunes on motorcycles. Similar concept perhaps, but a world away from this coral reef.

At least I'm sitting on the board now. Oops! No, not quite. The others smile knowingly and get on with the business at hand. Bastards. I'm keen to rest up a bit but the ocean, as always, has other ideas. Pummelled. Trashed again. Knackered and I haven't caught so much as a cold. I try to pick up some smaller ones to get the feel. Paddling for all I'm worth. To stand up, at least once. Shark bait.

By now the reef is dangerously close underneath. Paddling in, with sad air of resignation, exhausted. The others are getting plenty out there. Showering spray. Arcing across the waves, carving it up and having a ball. Bloody supermen. With a deep sigh, the old man turns and walks slowly up the hill.

Maybe tomorrow.

© Copyright. Peter Healy. All rights reserved. No part of this written work may be reproduced by any means; including but not limited to mechanical, photographic, digital, Internet or other electronic process; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied for public or private use; without the expressed written permission of Peter Healy.