Gentle visitors, we are posting surfside this evening -- returning, thereabouts, to the scene of an earlier meeting; though, with greater cooperation from the elements. With the door slightly ajar, we can hear the gentle insistence of breakers upon the goodly beach.
And, how wonderfully they break. Earlier today, your humble Contributor was practicing the relatively undisciplined sport of body surfing. Happily, he has a greater surface area upon himself than in prior years, which, applying elementary principles of physics, would seem to indicate a longer, more rousing ride upon the rollers. This, however, would not take into account the greater weight accompanying the larger surface area, which may negate the beneficial alacrity of the latter. That is to say, heavier bodies tend to sink faster. Whence, it may be a wash.
All of which caused your humble Contributor to consider such matters as wave formation and fluid mechanics, as he awaited the next Big Kahuna. Such speculative knowledge is always helpful in 
practicum: waist-deep in the doldrums of the salty froth, assessing the energy transference of the next approaching comber, the height of the crest, the depth of the trough, the wind-speed and wavelength, the approximate fetch (adjusted for known barrier reefs), etc.
In the end, however, science does not suffice. Whether to ride or no? One must make the call in a split second, based upon his (now enhanced) gut. Chose wrong, and he must endure the shame of a petering wavelet; too late, and the fruitless flailing of arms toward lost opportunity; too early, and the dumping and churning of self. Today, we chose, in the main, rightly.
Well, then, after a number of jolly rolls and spills, he emerges from the surf none the worse, but for a few patches of reddened, inflamed skin, brought on by ultraviolet light from the otherwise well-disposed center of our solar system and a distinct lack on melanin -- a condition commonly known as sunburn. No matter: we repair to a flapping, temporary shade and settle into a collapsible chair resting on a mat of fine, old rattan, then apply a gelatinous aloe balm and cool drink.
From this posture of recovery, we can observe our fellow grand stranders. Summer is over and school is in session, so the population is largely very young or very old. (Your humble Contributor believes that he belongs to the former group; others would put him in the latter group -- an utter slander but for the general truth of it.) Short, stubby legs motor toward the elusive and fastidious sandpipers; longer, chubby legs lumber along with no particular target except, from time to time, a stray shell. An old gentleman arrives puffing a corn cob and tossing a net into the surf to capture bait for the bigger fish (thence, to fry). Two older couples spend much of the day in what is apparently a grudge match of bocci. The tide switches from retreat to advance. All is well.
On the morrow, we may opt for another sandy recourse; and, on the next, we must away, and bid farewell to that billowing shore. Farewell.
Recent Comments