Sunday Morning – Surfers Paradise. Dawn shattered and spilt its contents into a blinding daze. The ocean at this time becomes a grand heliostat – polished by the waves – pounding the buildings with a secondary serve of brightness. You have seen this scene more than many, men and lucky glimpses of women – deliciously crisped brown – coaxing the ocean with their longboards. Sitting. Waiting. Bobbing like corks in an emerald soup and not one tall building in sight. Back in the day – because you can say that now – the ocean was wild. It was frothy and moody like an unbroken horse. As you stand there, salty memories rise like the tide – blippy reels of days embalming our bodies in foamy brine and rays.
You should have known better than to be out at Snapper Rocks that day – pinned down by the surf like your playful older sister. Tumbling, tickling, unaware of her strength against yours. You were out of breath, your lungs furnace-hot and the tiny voice inside your head making final plans for departure. You survived your baptism, and your board made it to the afterlife. It’s funny how your perspective fearlessly colours when under threat. You’d avowed to appreciate life’s nuances – that evaporated as soon as it took over. You worked to live and ploughed the breaks in your spare time. Paired and married your sweetie from Southport High. You saw her bloom and swell like the ocean, and both raised two girls as Poseidon’s daughters. They allow you now to spend quiet time with your wife who loves being left little posies of sea daisies. On days like today, they drive you an hour to be wrapped up by the ocean’s hymn. Today is the Sabbath – day of rest and worship.