Whispers that command attention

It isnt often that you come within inches of dying. The proverbial distance between ones index finger and thumb can well be miles apart; yet closer than nano-science. When time and space are obliterated in the infinity of the ocean, you can guess that the most relevant thing is air. Relevant perchance in a way only because of need, the organs may demand it, but you want it. There lies the lines drawn between needs and wants. When you start out in the journey of being a surfer, your first tenative steps into the malstorm that awaits you, are best taken in amazed awe. 'Cause that Mother Ocean demands some serious pay back. Watches and time pieces keep time. Seconds, moments, minutes, hours, days. Erased they are, in the clutches of a hold-down under the wet wilderness.

It would start out like any other situation, just another bad decision in a lifetime of ill-thought out moves. Not as noticible or reprehensible as some may have been. Just a mis-judgement. Missed. As in got away? Or just unrealized accomplishment? More so the latter, since every wave ridden gives impermanace a place of mass in ones archive of, well, stuff you done. You get to set the rewind button on when you like, and relish every turn, droplet of water, sea breeze.

Decisions. Yes, or No? Go or Not? In seconds time, you are playing the dance of a thousand songs, yet the band is waiting for your chord.

The mass of water that was heading in my direction was not the largest mass of liquid gold I had witnessed. Yet, it forbode its intent by giving me no chance to out run it, harness it, or avoid it. It just came. Like it was the cell door closing in a jail, or the final stamp of an "F" grade on a term paper. All your preperation for naught, young souljah. A mass of already broked foam; not ridable, as my selection of placement was revealed to be moronic. As with most deer frozen in the head-lights, I laid prone to the pummeling ahead.

Already not in the best of mind sets for really any surf-session, tempting the fate of a North Shore winter, with its unforgiving crowds, lunatics, and general skull duggery, I trudged off to the miracle that winter waves hold.

And was punished appropriately.

Dark, man it was so fucking dark. I knew that darkness was coming. Even through the blazing whiteness of the already broken foam, I knew what laid ahead. Already having murmurred to the self - "I gonna fucking die" but without the faith in the saying, since it has been said to the self a million times. The first part of dark was just grazing of grey, the second go round impacted the dark into my skull.

Clucthed onto, my body spun over, and tumbled without reason. The paws that enveloped my soul were not gentle wisps of graciousness, but unrelenting demonic paws.

You know not to panic. Because panic uses air, and air is a precious commodity at times of mornonic moves and ill-thought out decisions. When you have no idea which way is up, or which way is down. What the hell is sideways, anyhow? It became clear that the extent of this was not going to measured in liters of air consumed, but rather in the amount of time it would take the miniscule brain that i own to realize "hey, bro, you be screwed" . Infinty is a concept to insert here. Infinity times a few 10's. What part of the reef waited to caress (by tearing of flesh) me? Remember the first thought? The way you looked sitting on the corner in first grade? How dumb it was to drive Unk's car at 100MPH + in San Fran? The taste of love?

Where in the hell am I going? It is endless. Brush of sand. A tug of the leash and then release. The leash to your board has broken. Fuck. It will get dinged, and then you gotta fix...What the fuck am I worried about the damn board for? Not panic, fucking out right fear is rising up, directly up, from my fucking balls. It is traversing my spine, waxing up to my shoulders, crusing past my cerebellum, and planting its unwanted flag directly over my conquerd soul.

Fear, the last great enemy before sheer panic.

The gaping hole of my mouth quits its sewer door trap. Water begins to descend to my lungs, and the breech of the waters edge does nothing to stop the puke from ousting itself from my being.

Survival, or a mere quitters revenge?

I'll never know.



After the washing was done, and the panic alighted. I drained the gallonage from my sinus' and headed to work.

And wait for another day.