Sisyphus is a surfer

I arrive late in the evening, bleary-eyed from 2,000 kilometers of driving, a family funeral and too little sleep. As the roads turn into streets and the houses huddle in familiar clusters, I take a left cliffside, park hurriedly and run to the parapet: it is still there as I left it three months ago, more unruly perhaps, with irregular lines peaking and troughing to shore, waves rolling their hellos under the roaring wind. “Hello! Hello Ocean, how have you been? You look frazzled! Or am I projecting? I gotta unpack, see you tomorrow, board and all!”. It is cold, damp, dark and windy. “Perfect!” I say out loud as I slam the car door. I am grinning.

The following morning, the sun peeks out, the wind turns and the ocean is doing its best Pacific-blue impersonation. I yank my board bag from the front seat, pull my t-shirt over my head, hug my wetsuit, enjoying that giddy rush from the familiar smell of neoprene, toss my flip-flops in the car, tuck my key in and grab my board, running unevenly as my bare feet get used to the ground again. And then I stop.

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