Being a surfer is like wearing a second skin, and not the one of the Ripcurl wetsuit. It means waking up early in the morning like you are not on holiday, or like there is always holidays, and the whole world is yours, especially the blue part of it; checking the ocean for waves becomes suddenly more important than sleeping. I’ve joined the Dawn Patrol.
We drive fast on the highway to get further, where waves born hundreds of miles away touch the shores in milky splashes. We park the car and I notice the happy face. Alex looked up for the wind.
“We stay. Shall I take it?” he asks.
Of course not. I’m a surfer. I want to carry my own surfboard. It’s a big log, a 9.4 longboard. It’ s not heavy, but I struggle and stumble, my arms shorter than the width of my board. I smile, thinking that I look like an ant that is carrying a big chunk of food. I reach the sand and let the board go…pick up the nose, dragging it, holding it tight, stumbling again. Alex laughs. I have a new toy, and I’m not his anymore. Like he hasn’t been mine for so long when his mistress, the Ocean, was around calling for him. I wanted so much to understand, and I finally did. I want to scream so that everybody knows how I feel…my first wave, carrying me endlessly like a dream, me up on the board, balanced, as I am part of it, part of the wave, part of the sea.
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