I'm in the water, paddling out to a deep rock shelf near the furthest point of the bay. It's busy over there, black bodied surfers dotting the water like seals lounging on rocks. Rhythmically, perfectly spaced walls of green grow from nowhere and then disappear into white, washing across the plain. Mostly they're chased by the seals, suddenly alive, chasing, being chased.
It usually ends with a splash.
I'm paddling across deep, clean water, my arms burning in the muscles, my suit warm and light across my back. My eyes and mouth burn slightly from the salt, dry and acid. I can hear the waves breaking, the other surfers silent over the waves. My hands break the cool water, gently splashing, a sound so familiar it's as if it came from inside me.
