“They will have days at the desk of frantic boredom, or angry hopelessness, of wanting to quit forever, and there will be days when it feels like they have caught and are riding a wave.”
So picture this. Ankles grip the sides of a slippery board; the sun bakes warm as cupped hands dig though ocean bathwater. Salt crusted bangs lift on a sighing breeze; grey she crabs side-walk across wrinkled ridges fanning out on the cream sand below. The board slaps as I fall off inconsequential swells. Out beyond the sandbar an ocean orchestra tunes up with thunder and foam, but here, the water inhales and spits its measured rhythm like a pan of hot oil lifted and returned to the flame. There will be no surfing today.
I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to paddle in, wrap myself in a towel and drive off to buy an Easter Ham.
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