Subject: I surf . . . From: "Bonzer" Date: 1996/12/01 Message-Id: <01bbdf3a$066e26c0$4041a7cf@dew.znet.com> Organization: Unknown Organization Newsgroups: alt.surfing He drifted in on a restless tide. Standing on the precipice, collar turned to the cold wind. His gaze set upon the textured horizon. His eyes squinting, knowing, but at the same time professing innocence, loudly for all the world to ignore. Yet, he cares not what the world hears. For he ponders the power that could light a thousand cities. And laughs in the face of calamity and mocks the fury of the raging cauldron beneath. He screams into the wind, if only for himself. And that is enough. The eyes reflect the world he sees before him. The transient anger of an Arctic storm pressing hard against mighty, scoured cliffs, searching for a toe hold to emancipation. Held in as though with a swaddling band, like a child rearing against the firm hand of a knowing and wise parent. Tamed at long last only against it's will. To the clear depths of a calm tropical sea in the relentless summer sun. The sun beating. Beating. Beating. Even beneath the canopy of a jungle, burdened with water, beating. Intense is the smell of matter being reduced to it's simplest state. Assaulted by a cacophony of sounds. Malaria, dysentery, ecstasy. Of the grand spectacle of living rock, in myriad colors and shapes. Amused by the turmoil thrust upon it day after day. Thriving in it. Creatures unimagined for eons, not giving themselves up easily. Where a piece of himself lies even yet, undisturbed. Roads of thick dust. Deserts, rock, bones. Where cactus, sage, and Century plants reach in their forward march to the sky, only to bend ignobly in death after a few short years. Or was it a hundred? What does it matter? Only the bottles and broken roads alter the landscape in these centuries of time. And then, just barely. Freeways, urban sprawl, gangs. Primates of a higher order? Claiming relation to the human race while adulterating it's running. Showing themselves for the beasts they are, or have become? An animal could not imagine an intentional thing such as this! Defecating like dogs in their own den. Only dogs would not. Yes. The fornicating of the earth. The vile works of their hands are seen in the clear water of deadly bays. Flush with imperceptible organisms lurking beneath, like some veiled poison fog. Fish with their flesh rotting from the inside out. Beaches closed to all but the dead and dying. The sewage of humanity spilling out upon the waters and sand. Ride the wave. Surf's up dude. Just don't ride here or I'll stick you. He has seen the things of this world, the good and the bad, through the shrouded eyes of salt and burn and fever. Yet he sees with the eyes of understanding. Moved by fever of a different sort. With a fervor that leaves him thirsting, yea crying out, for the quenching coolness of water. No, not that which you drink, nor that with which you press gently against the face, but what you fold yourself into, like the arms of a nurturing mother. To partake of her milk. To suckle the power of the earth. To feel it throb beneath you, around you, within you. Gulping, for a moment, with only fleeting satisfaction. Enough to last but an hour, or maybe a day. But enough, if only for now. Until the next time he is drawn inexorably to guzzle again. A world touched by the blessed few. Drink, drink up I say. While there is yet time. Is it fleeting after all? Or does some remain? Each building upon the later, imbued with a sense of timelessness. Purpose. Clarity. Building for the future. But for what? Is there a place to be found for him? Home is the place of his own choosing, should the choice be his to make. A place where all senses are dominated by the smell of salty air, fish, rust, rotting kelp, and ions. Rarefied. A simple breath of air speaks of indubitable conclusions. And always, like wind consuming heat, and fire eating fuel. Always, the grinding sound of sea struggling against land. In the end, land knows no hold. Speak then of the despoiling of firmament in a frightful battle, inch by desperate inch. It's stronghold is broken, leaving in it's wake something terrible in it's beauty. The demarcation line. The spoils of war. Sand. That which is the forgotten remnants of a once proud land beaten down by the sea, now driven by wind and wave. Unyielding, it paid the price. Unobservant of the incessant contrivance of the waters, it paid with it's life. Listen, lest we be driven as well. It is in walking this most tenuous of lines, scrawled in the sand, that he finds sustenance. That he feeds his hunger. That he comes to understand the greatest truths. Of creation. Of living and it's purpose. It is here that he makes his final stand. Although his pursuit is without end. Was it his to control, or rather is it controlling him? This is not a place of angel dust, cocaine, or acid. Not a world of the disturbed sleep of lovers of intoxicating drink. Nor the spectral experience of the watchers of crystals, crop circles, or stonehenge. No. For theirs is a momentary rhapsody. A mere wisp of the breeze in the passing of time. But the ocean, the ocean abides forever. Tides rise and fall. Salt, water, the elements of the earth are loft on high from it's very depths. Only to find their way back. Drawn ever homeward. The wind, moon, and sun conspire to create the most extraordinary production of the ages. He too is drawn ever homeward. I am he and the ocean is where my place is found. I drifted in on a restless tide, and the tide is mine. I surf . . . Bonzer --