Writers on the Storm

"Well, would you look at that" Whispered the Wind. Upon finding such placid seas before thee. Out f breath a nearly dead wind. Summoned its last gasp attempting to reveal itself and said.

"Hello! Let’s go. Get moving Sea!"

"No thanks Wind I’ve settled in quite nicely. Pipe down and try to be more low key"

Replied the Sea.

"I hope you’re ready to make a splash? This blowhards here to light a fire under your ass"

Countered the Wind. Which in turn caused a normally levelheaded Sea to respond contemptuously.

"Shut your trap, you ain’t got the gas. what do you foresee blowing in for me? Victory at Sea. Will you huff and puff and blow me away? Your woof early scratch the surface. Go away I’m sleeping in today"

We’re upon hearing such ridiculous guff. The Wind sarcastically yawned and said "Enough is enough" Followed by a seawolf’s deafening growl. Which of course caused a chain reaction. Wherein the Winds started howling. Blowhards from all over cutting in with their two cents. Growing and strength from a gusty gale. Into a massive cyclone, last of the season late in the fall.

The ripple effect on the water. Growing into a myriad of massive rollers. Cresting high above foreboding troughs. White capping so treacherously no Sea Captain worth their salt would dare to scoff.

Days later a thousand miles away. I stand on a bluff changing out of my wetsuit elated and exhausted. Pondering a thought

The bodies taking shape before me. Tall drinks of water. Blindsided surfers not up to the task. Lead their like lambs to the slaughter.

For those who’s skill our good fortune ferried them passed the shore break. There rose plentiful peaks advertising perfection. World class waves peeling of in either direction. Offshore winds standing them up for some last second corrections. Send sea spray shimmering skyward. And lesser surfers scrambling for the channel and it’s perceived protection.

As another who’s placed themselves directly in the path of the oncoming swells. Meets one at its apex. Entirely under its spell. As it prepares to crest and crash on the reef. In its awesome display of its power.

There atop a towering peak. A surfer nearly has in their grasp. All that they seek. "Backside? No frontside" The right side of the goofy footers brain insists. A hundred yards down the line later. You can hear the surfer howling. Finishing an epic ride on the beach.