Sensing it coming up behind her, she paddles. She paddles with all her might. She paddles for her dear life. Then feeling the ton of water lapping at her feet, the board picking up speed, she holds on. She holds on for dear life. She sees the drop, and stands, riding the wave into the shore. She forgets the fear, the weight of the water wall behind her, the wind in her hair. The details shift into the center. This is the communion between man and god. This is yoga.
The fear came in waves. First, soft and gentle waves. They rolled steadily in. As the tide of her heart rose, so did the height of each wave. As her emotions became more fierce, so did the crash of each new wave, an onslaught of anger, sadness, anxiety, hate. She was drowning, torn up...
Today the water is glassy. So different after the torrents swept through the village, grabbing at anything that is not bolted to the ground. The waves were like hundreds of grabbing giant hands. So different now with its head high wave peeling across the break, a perfect tube, a vortex in which troubles are lost and forgotten.
-kaz castillo
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