The ocean captivates, its countenance fickle. Now darkness. Cold, frothy giants pound in unrelenting rhythm, giving no purchase to board or fin. Now light. A twinkling surface throwing back the glow of sun, a glassy caress of warm water—then a clean line easily discovered after a smooth drop in.
Surfing that roiling, infinitely faceted sea is akin to pinning unruly ideas on a page. Twins in their ability to frustrate, exhilarate, stretch, and beguile me. A well-wrought word feels like grace, a breath exhaled in that moment I’m suspended at the wave’s lip. I will make the drop. Bottom turn and then I zip down the line of water, like words perfectly balanced along the line of a sentence.
Taking chances is the only way to improve. Paddling for that gut-dropping wave, a mountain of water that could put me in flight…or churn me in its airless depths. Will I choose a word that hedges meaning and lulls with familiarity? Or dig until I excavate that one verb that clarifies intent, refuses passivity? I’m tossed and rolled, tolerating the discomfort until everything clicks.
Open-ended and creative, surfing and writing invite play. Rearrange structure, voice, word to detail stories and viewpoints completely individual. Carve the face in a singular dance. Mess around, enjoy the process, tap into that magical moment of joy.
Ultimately, both practices are spiritual. I struggle, paddle, erase, and rewrite until I experience the sanctity of Zen. Nothing exists but me, the wave, and that mystical line to the next word.
