Saturday, June 3rd, 2006. Laundromat.
I slept soundly restoring my sapped strengths. Awoke, the day announced itself with the roar of profuse sets of waves scrambling the surfing line like a cosmic blender. I drove to the docks and entered the containers. All the kayaks were stacked in the racks. Only the coach pfd was wet. A very thin red line.
I set off and approached the swells that curved by the groynes and started a bopping journey to the East. The swells approached and raised my boat from starboard until I made it to the influence of the cliffs. There, heaps of surging water closed from both beams. Things got persistently nasty with natural ease. Wagnerian horns and booming drums followed the tall splashes of spray against the boulders as I slightly crunched forward and leaned against the incoming waves. Amazed and proud of my relax, the clear and present chance of being liberally tossed by the waves on high against the steep faces of rocks, made me to mentally switch on the line with the Lord of the seas that all Catholics are afforded when in the absence of a trained, professional rescue service. Great awe.
After twenty minutes, I extricated myself from the reflecting waves and glimpsed the usually comforting view of the long, open shore. Far from being released from my predicament, the wind blew with increased strength creating what I took for the leading edge of marine wave technology. Long sets of waves slid with soaring impetus, raising their angry shoulders up to very thin crests before tumbling violently in swirling foam.
I paddled until I was right in front of the palm trees that made the villa easily distinguishable and halted, numbering the odd sets of high breakers. I made a tempting run for the shore and abruptly started paddling back as a wall of pristine blue water rose and started to tower, fifty yards off my stern, too close to leave behind. I stayed put again, watching the dreadful beauty of a full spin washing cycle. Before me laid the beauty of the sea’s operating system and a very binary choice: To have the bongo slide of my life or turn tail for the harbour. Before the last breaker reached the beach, I glanced back. The white caps seemed to keep for a moment an even level. I bet all for a quiet set of waves and dashed for the shore.
My boat circulated through the waves, descending over troughs that seemed too slow to reach my progress, even as the foam washed around my stern. A rudder. A flat blade over the canting shoulder of a low wave. A short brace. A linear run in the shallows. I pop up free my spray skirt, grab the cockpit’s rim and lift my kayak over the sand.
He culls the wheat from the chaff.













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