Big waves yesterday under a gray sky. Hard to get surfboards out past the breakers with “Mother Ocean” (Jimmy Buffet's term of endearment, not mine) punching you in the teeth and kicking you in the nuts. Directing the action from next to the cooler, I watched the guy I was with come floating in like a dead man. He stumbled out of the pissed off sea and staggered back to base camp carrying both halves of his broken shorty.
We drank the rest of our beer, barely noticing when it began to rain.
Driving home to Jonesville (bruised, beaten and shredded), we didn’t say a word. My friend was in a funk about his broken board and I had demons of my own. All week a bad vibe had been probing my defenses – setting off trip wires but stopping short of engaging. There was serious shit storm brewing, I could feel it breathing on the tiny hairs at the back of my neck. The miles went by unnoticed until I came back full circle to the road and the gap that had opened up doing eighty. I floored it and jumped in line. I dialed in a Spanish radio station, patted the little Seecamp in my front pocket and offered my buddy a hit of grass.
And then, of course, the sun came out.
-- JT Jonesberry, Folly Beach, South Carolina