Excerpt of Upswell
Photo by LECHAT Valentin on Unsplash
Number one rule of surfing...
Don’t drop in.
It’s pretty fucking simple.
I sit on my board, past the break line, my feet dangling in the warm sea. My board
buoys me over a small swell and there’s a familiar tug on my leg rope as the undercurrent
sucks back towards the horizon that tells me the next wave will be big.
Anticipation prickles as the ocean slopes, slow and relentless, growing fat and high. I
pivot onto my stomach and begin paddling. I can see exactly what shape the wave will take,
what angle it will pitch at, what spot on the wave’s face I will own.
I launch in and claim it.
Adrenaline explodes in my core. The wave rushes up and my deck rises to meet my
feet. I fly along the bank, my fingers trail across the face, spraying white water behind me. I
lean onto my front foot, my board firm and sure, and tilt downwards, my fins rising as I head
for the inside rail.
The lip of the wave is frothing when the surfer crests up and over, skimming into my
path. I whistle, loud as a car horn, the way my brother Brock taught me as a kid and wait for
the drop-in to do the right thing and kick out.
But he doesn’t.
Don’t drop in.
It’s pretty fucking simple.
I sit on my board, past the break line, my feet dangling in the warm sea. My board
buoys me over a small swell and there’s a familiar tug on my leg rope as the undercurrent
sucks back towards the horizon that tells me the next wave will be big.
Anticipation prickles as the ocean slopes, slow and relentless, growing fat and high. I
pivot onto my stomach and begin paddling. I can see exactly what shape the wave will take,
what angle it will pitch at, what spot on the wave’s face I will own.
I launch in and claim it.
Adrenaline explodes in my core. The wave rushes up and my deck rises to meet my
feet. I fly along the bank, my fingers trail across the face, spraying white water behind me. I
lean onto my front foot, my board firm and sure, and tilt downwards, my fins rising as I head
for the inside rail.
The lip of the wave is frothing when the surfer crests up and over, skimming into my
path. I whistle, loud as a car horn, the way my brother Brock taught me as a kid and wait for
the drop-in to do the right thing and kick out.
But he doesn’t.