On (not) Surfing

So I went to Phillip Island this past weekend. The place I stayed at had chickens in the backyard, and on Sunday morning I went and got fresh eggs for breakfast!

Anyways, I went to Phillip Island to surf.

I can't remember how old I was when I first saw the ocean. 16 or so maybe? It was the Atlantic on the east coast of Canada. It was rocky and so cold it hurt. And vast. So very vast. I remember tasting it, to make sure it was salty, like people said it would be.

I have a surfboard, and a wetsuit, and I spend time with these things in the waves of the Pacific Ocean, down here in Australia, but I wouldn't say I'm surfing. I'm not standing on my board carving a trail across the face of a wave. I'm battling, and grappling and gasping against salty walls of water that push and batter me towards shore.

And it's beautiful. I love the endless sandy beaches, and the frothy sea foam. I love the taste of the sea, and the way it roughens my hair as it dries. I love lying on my board, rocking and rising to the endless rolling waves.

I'm not surfing. Not yet. But whatever it is I'm doing out there is wonderful, all the same.