#issue 08

I’ve driven my wife and children crazy during beach walks because I feel the need to point out the waves. I drift in and out of conversations, distracted by the way a set is wrapping into the lee of a particular point, organizing itself. Pure glee when the outgoing tide suddenly jacks the waves a few feet higher as they roll across an emerging sandbar. Then I begin to brood because I didn’t bring a board or a wetsuit. Nothing, I’m told, is more boring than when I do start talking about the waves, harpooning dialogues with a tour guide’s gesticulations, effusiveness tinged with longing and frustration, because I just want to surf and can’t at that moment. My fellow walkers nod politely, resume their pace, pick up the threads of their sabotaged topics and leave me ogling seaward as if I’ve suddenly forgotten where I am.