Gliding over the Tides

From the soften beach floor bed, cradles a local dog resting peacefully in the early morning sun. He has his snout facing seaward, out to catch the cool combing embrace of the morning breeze through his sandy copper fur. And even though his paws had already aged, the pads are soft still. He had lived each breaking day in this tranquil state all his life. And for a moment there, I envied the mutt, for I forget on how long far ago I had sleep like that.

The sun was just about at the right ascend when the wind driven current was gesturing its invitation to come along into the sea. The air is oozing with excitement as both locals and tourists march unto the stretch, with their hover boards pressed between their sides and their arms, as they have their gaze fixed outward to the vast openings of the ocean.

The agenda was to stop, to watch the crashing of the waves, and while the waters breathe briskly through each white northern collapse, against our feet, the ocean’s pulse finds its way to the homey banks of the shore, where the solace of wisdom sits as it waits for their safe return.

We then lingered all our inhibitions, on this rejuvenating view before us. The mutt was right to stay, and we followed him through in silence sitting in the shaded parts of the beach.

And as the browned and baked bodies are about to go under against the unrelenting white waters of the north, they hold their breaths before each plunge, they paddle out to make their acquaintance with the ocean’s entirety, as they entwine their bodies with each exhaling current until they are finally welcomed to share its world.

Graceful on their gliders, the sun induced melanin lingers in their now crisp and darken skin, their hair is bleached by salt, preserving their youth in a timeless compartmentalized memory they hope to keep.

As their fingers run through the tunnelling waters, they wait patiently for that perfect one, a marriage of some sort, like a romantic getaway maybe, and when they finally do, they take off on that wave, over the pilgrimage of the herd, without any sails they move beautifully through the current, drifting in clouds, they sail in their dreams wide awake.

Now the waves are rushing in from the entire stretch, and in their varying motions they charge just to disintegrate upon each collapse. And from this unchoreographed parade one realizes the truth that is being carried in each crashing; that there are no plans beyond the uncontrollable and the unseen.

That we just paddle out to meet whatever kind of waves we are there to catch. We plunge our way through head on, to meet with each swollen-embossed tide that we brave to shake hands with, and with humility we try to hold a steady pace for as long as we could, while it last, until the strong waves decide to wipe us out on our sides.

And from a faraway voice that echoed as a celebration of the waves, its familiar roars of tunes made it sounded so near. A version of its hums or it must be a prayer for the celestial, we hear the words form, until they are finally made and forged.

And soon, answers will be then dispensed; neither for the eyes to read nor for our ears to hear. And in its modesty and simplicity we hope to take refuge, in its utter silence through our rib cages and arteries.

IMGP0079Lonely stride, but not.


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