The Endless Summer

I’m not a good surfer.

In my defence, albeit I’ve surfed sporadically every time I was on holiday in a warm country since 7 years ago, it’s only this summer that the surfing bug got into me. This July. Something clicked. I was out bringing my son to the ocean – he’s fifteen now, and even if I did already brought him surfing once, this July the bug got to him as well.

We were at our local beach break, rented out our beginners foamies, and went in the water. We’re both very good swimmers, and we both share a deep love for the ocean.

During the time in the water, we did have fun – how can you not, in the ocean?

So we catch a small wave here and there, trying to balance ourselves. He’s good at skiing, and I can see he can balance himself already. Half the session goes like that – wait for the wave, catch it, ride it slowly, repeat.

But then. Then it happened. The wind dropped, and the water got immediately flat. And from afar – bulging like a sea-monster that crossed the bay, growing like a Dune-worm, higher, and higher, and stronger, so strong that you feel it in your bones, ancestral signal, Run, or you’ll die – and it grew; and grew; and grew; and we pumped and screamed Get it, get it, get it, this wall of blue-green marvel with a white hat, growling towards us, and suddenly – there! The power of the sea, of the water, of Earth itself, pushing, just two inches from your feet, and we both stood up, and rode the breath of the sea to shore.

And when we fell down, the magic of being one with nature broke, and whitewater washed upon us, and we felt again the cold, the wind, the fatigue; but there was only one thing in our minds now. We wanted to do it again.

Again.

There was only the wave, that mystical creature that water carves in front of you, that white-blu horse that you want to tame. That wave contained the bug, and me and my son swallowed it whole.

Again, you take your board, and paddle out.

That’s the spirit that makes a surfer, and that’s why I was always fascinated with the sport and the culture. If you never have surfed, you might think it’s all wave-riding and shaka hand signs.

It’s not.

It’s mostly keeping your balance afloat an angry ocean that tries so very hard to make you fall. It’s all about paddling out until your arms scream Please stop. And then waiting. Waiting for that one wave – the one you’ll be able to sync with, that will propel you forward, making you stand on that small floating device, making you feel the king of the Ocean, a brand new Poseidon crawling out the mythical sea to greet humans.

Every surfer is a God among men when he walks on the ocean – and that single moment of bliss is what makes people grind all the time.

So yeah, I got the surfer bug. And yes, that’s mostly an artistic website, with literature and art and whatnot. But I hope that this metaphor will stick with you –  as we’ve been a bit absent this endless summer; we’ve been paddling out, ground our days in and out, waiting for that perfect wave – the one that will make us feel God; be it a literal wave or a literary one, or a musical one, or a love one. We’ve all been looking for that wave, that perfect wave.

The same you’re looking for.

And trust me, that wave is there, and you’ll recognise it; because when you’ll ride it, you’ll finish it to shore, kill it, and with all your being you’ll just say to yourself:

Again.

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