6 pm. Back broken, soul on the verge, and scorched from the hell-bent angle of the sun. Gate shut, the lumber yard is a hollow skeleton, and I’m gassed out.
Burnt confusion, after 12-hours of strain, lumbar pain, and in two weeks at the razor-thin end of scrapin’ by; with a drenched liver, bleary eyes, wide panties from standing and humping one night that I don’t remember, circling the drain, the paycheck and relief hit again.
I didn’t want to hear nothin’ and walked a bulls-eye stalk, straight to the truck. Marty, he’s a rotund twerp, calls out, “did you lock up the yard?”
“Trust the intrinsic survival mechanics embedded in your system—it works best surface side, built to handle the ride.”
“Better double check it!” I shout, and screech out, blasting for the interstate. On the peel, I spew, “you got eyes, idiot! Choose health! Walk and inspect the gate, yourself!”
At the beach, when I arrive, the water and sky converge, impressively sleek—crisp, bright, and the horizon line is magnificent, the blaze of eternity on the other side.
“Just in time,” Sheezer hands me a beer, “swell’s ‘bout to pump a stellar whomp.”
Ditch the work wear and tie tight trunks to the waist, slide on flippers and run weird like ducks on dry land. Plunge in the water, you’ll move like a dolphin-monk.
Swim hard. The shoreline smashes neck-breakers, and you gotta duck-dive, go deep, further than lungs are comfortable to breathe, to survive the slaughter of swell sets.
Which are like life, waves & years, surge-on and whether your head is on a swivel, or lodygaggin’ ‘n doggy-paddlin;’ the managers of the universal flow, have a world to turn and time to blow. So, kick-hard on every stroke and trust the intrinsic survival mechanics embedded in your system—it works best surface side, built to handle the ride.
Keep your head above water, get in position, feel the pull, the rise, and when the swell lifts, and the wave rushes forward like sling-shot speed, shoot your arm to glide, and belly-slide the propulsion of the universe like pelican wings catch an offshore breeze.
Rough & rugged, it takes guts to handle any ramble, down the livin-grind, dreams are fragile, and I haven’t met a day that doesn’t make the consistent fade into night.
A full bloom moon emerges and watches over… final sets, the chomp of whomps that spit us out onto the sand. The last rolls, the final swallows and the eternal cleanse of green-room barrels.
