West Coast Surf

Slug slow tendrils
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.

The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.

Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.

A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.

We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.

Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.