Morgan Bazilian Punctuated Joy
“Mate,
get your slow arse out here!” Philip yelled. Then he laughed. Then he coughed. Coughing more, he threw up in the salty blue/grey water. He wiped the spit off with the black neoprene of his wetsuit, and let his arm fall into the water. The surfboard dipped a little, but he stayed upright. The ocean swirled around. He put one hand on his knee, and bent his elbow. The other hand grabbed the rail of the board. He shook his head and, looked towards the skyline. A set of four
waves arrived soon after. He did not move, but just let them go by him – through him. They landed one after the other on my head, as I tried to dive under them, making my way out to the line of other surfers to try and see the expression on his face. The water was moving in several directions at once that afternoon. The wind was coming off the small dunes. Past the dunes, three small streets were running away from the ocean. Low houses with big yards placed in rows. Only one other car
beside ours was in the small parking lot. A weathered wooden staircase led from the pavement to the sand. The stairs were half broken, but I don’t remember them making any noise when I stepped on them. Most of the time we cannot distinguish a moment of significance. Perhaps because they are all significant, or perhaps because we are rarely paying attention. The water was grey, or something like a lack of colour. As we sat and watched for waves and the sunset at the same