Water washing gently over,
My hands pressed flat
Against a beautifully crafted wooden board
My thumbs pressing into the stringer
Lying ready.
No responsibilities,
As I wait for my wave.
Eyes closed,
Rain on my back,
Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

I hear a distant call,
That tells me my wave is approaching.
I see it,
Across the captivating, crashing sea
And determination fills me.
I will ride it.

My hands dive in,
Mechanically,
One at a time,
Over and over,
Scooping more water back
With every small pull
But still losing my endless race
Against the sea.

My preexisting bruises accentuate
From earlier days of
Lawless unremitting surf
As my bones grind into the board.
I don’t care.

The wave is almost on top of me,
It’s over my feet.
If I don’t jump up,
I’ll be pulled under
By the gorgeous demon of a wave
Quickly chasing me
Through the ocean.
Now.

Hands splayed out
In the wild air,
Wind rushing like a harsh breath
Through my outstretched fingers,
Soaking wet
While riding through the rain.
This is where I want to be;
This is where I’m meant to be.
Out here on the blue, blue ocean,
No problems,
Messy hair,
Bruised ribs,
Cracked nails,
Free, scarred hands.
Free soul.

I decide to ride it in,
Just to hold on to this feeling,
This addictive feeling that
I have nothing to do,
But anything I could do.
This peaceful feeling
Of liberating happiness
That you can only achieve
When you’re doing something you’re passionate about.
This is the feeling of pure life
Because on the board,
Atop the ocean,
In the rain,
All I can do is feel.

I can’t see,
The beauty that resides in
The bottomless depths
Of the mysterious evening sea,
Or the terraced, natural mountains
Of the Costa Rican skyline
As alive as the jungle it contains.

I can’t hear,
My friends or coaches
As they yell
In a chorus of cheers,
Or the radiating clap
Of thunder rolling through
The dark, dusk sky.

I can’t smell,
The salty aroma brought by the ocean
That I’m sure is wafting
Through the air around me,
Or the fragrance of the summer storm
That soaks us,
But fails to soak our spirits.

But even though
I can’t smell
The rain or the salt
Can’t hear
The yells or the thunder
Can’t see
The ocean or the mountains
I can feel it all.

I feel
My bare feet
On the wax covered board,
The rough leash
Connected to my ankle,
The water streaming
Over my hands,
My wet rash guard,
My bruised ribs,
My messy hair,
My free hands,
Breathing,
Rain.

I feel feet sinking,
Easily and invariably,
Into the wet, squishy sand.
Hands picking up a board
And resting it on my head,
For support.
They don’t feel like mine.

I feel as if I am only
bonded to the ocean.
I feel freedom.
I feel peace.
It’s what they say in Costa Rica;
Pura Vida.