Notes From a Surfer

January 8, 2010
Ah, beaches. Nice and cozy beaches. The blazing sun radiated on my face. Sitting there on my plastic chair, I knew come morning my already tan skin would be Hot Tamale red. I could feel the sun’s heavy rays penetrate my arms and legs. A long day had finally come to a close by meeting a late sunset, now was the time for relaxation.

I let my French manicured toes push through the rough and tepid sand. It seemed to melt as it passed over my bare feet. I was sitting very close to the ocean and could smell the salt. The waves aggressively ate the already drenched sand grains. The foamy sea licked my toes. As it retreated, the water erased my foot marks. It seemed as if the smooth water was trying to seduce me into taking a quick dip. I might of if I had been wearing my swimsuit. I changed out of it after surfing for an hour. The wetsuit was now keeping my beach house’s bathroom floor slippery. Now I was wearing soft cotton shorts the color of the inside of a sweet and sticky watermelon. My white t-shirt was advertising Carl Edwards great driving skills. My Oliver Peoples sunglasses had come from a street vender, common for Miami.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds. Even though all the young couples and families had retired for the day, I could still smell sunscreen and grape board wax from a hard core surfer that had passed by. Over the wax I could almost taste the greasy hotdogs. The stand was closed for the day but it was if the hotdog juice was stained permanently on the hot dog stand’s cement slab. A chilled breeze tickled my neck, as if a ghost had opened the ice cream freezer.

For a moment I sat there in a still silence. Then an excited surfer’s scream brought me back to reality. I opened my eyes to see a tall man walk with his ebony Labrador. Behind me I could hear the New Radicals pipe through someone’s scratchy car stereo with their hit, ‘You Only Get What You Give’. Personally, that song was great for sound tracking a high surf.

Surfing had reluctantly become my life since my big move. I use to live in Alaska, to be more specific, Rontu, Alaska, which is located right inside the Sleeping Lady Mountain. The mountain is freezing and uninviting; especially when you know the only way to get around is to hop on a sled powered by eight Husky dogs. To feel warm you have to step inside the town and meet the people who dwell within the mountain. My hometown, despite being covered in ice, was very warm-hearted. Anyone was welcome in Rontu. I only moved because of my job opportunities. Sometimes the sun’s radiance reminded me of my toasty home and its cheerful people, but even Miami’s extreme temperatures couldn’t keep my heart warm.

If I were to go back, I think I would miss the surfing. Right now I miss dog sledding but the men here are much more attractive. It took me my first two weeks of living here to get my footing right, but it was worth it. Surfing takes everything away. There is nothing to stress over. Surfing can be your everything. It lets you be lazy and relax but give you an excuse to say that you are in shape. My office over looks the beach and by the time I’ve had to pull little toys out of eight different children’s noses, surfing is all I can think about. Most of my patients would be surprised to see their doctor on top of a Hawaiian carved surfboard.

My surfboard is the apple of my eye. It’s made out of a Hawaiian tree. I didn’t listen when the seller was persuading me. All I could think about was my bare feet standing on top of the beautiful pink flower that was painted in the middle. I had a Husky silhouette painted on the top edge. It reminded me of home, especially when I surf in the morning when the sea is ice cold like the snow that surround my old house.

What can I say, surfing and beaches have brought me to realize, it’s okay to relax. What makes it even better is when you enter a tunnel and water droplets stick to your face like Velcro, you can’t help but smile.





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SwagDaddy2015 said...
May 19, 2016 at 8:13 pm
This was amazing cous ;) you should be a professional author
 
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