Surfers

Brief prose on life as it is

In the winter we would pull the boards off the old wooden pier and build bonfires on the beach. No one was out there except us. I still remember their faces each of us around the fire steam coming off our wetsuits laughing telling stories of who was surfing the best or worst, not that it really mattered anyway, that was never the point. When spring came the pier would be missing rails, planks, anything we could pry off. I don’t think anyone really cared. It would be repaired in time for the summer surge of tourist and mainlanders. No one thought the worse for this. We were all just young kids learning rip tides, how to get out on big days, the trim line,
Nose riding. Our parents would drop us off at the toll gate and we would have to paddle to the pier. There were no flags then no red, green, yellow, if there was surf we were paddling out ….everyday was a green flag. We had no leashes and had to learn to hang on to our 9 foot logs or swim. We all became good swimmers. Under the pier we would hide our quarters fo lunch. In the summers I would catch sand fleas and sell them to the fishermen on the pier for more potato logs. Then we would sleep under the pier in the shade. Surfing was our life, we lived and breathed waves, we were
Becoming
Surfers