I have made it
out the back
drenched, half seeing
inert from sustained effort –
wave crash wave crash
crash again.

Salt water in my
ears eyes hair nose mouth.
I am meant to be
here to catch
my wave.
I can’t face it now.

The paddle out has
terrified and
exhausted me.
I beg the sun to shed
a ray on my
frozen hands.
It doesn’t.

I keep one eye
warily
on the horizon
lest an errant pilgrim
should catch me out.
I would be done for.

Breathing and
lying flat, a hidden
alchemy restores my
senses, turns despair
to quivering hope.
A wave! Perhaps I
could consider it after all?

I lurk, trying to look
interested, but
in fact avoiding any
drift to the take-off zone, wish I
looked braver, but
don’t.

I wish I had a
fruit pastille.

For the first time
I am aware of
other surfers
like me, probably,
looking braver than
they feel.

But all of us are
out here, waiting.
I sit up, salute,
and turn to make a
full assessment:
sun, sea, wind
position, rhythm,
sets, self.

I inch forward,
put myself at risk
of drowning,
paddle gently,
invite adventure
with a tentative
inner nod.

The wave heaves me
back and then
thrusts me forward.
In a moment I will
tip
out of control again,
at the mercy of
instinct and
every hour of practice.

Sensation of falling…
Will I make it or wipe out?
…