Surfing Past 50

At 50, I learned to surf in the warm waters off Puerto Viejo,

A gift I’d promised myself if ever I flew the six hours across the ocean.

My birthday plus one day found me old enough to balance

Feet, thighs, hands and shoulders with a bouyant survivor’s jubilation.

On the day, the actually turning day, I wept for journeying so far,

Directionless so it was after all, despite the doing drive of delivery,

Tenacity and 1000 steps winding a mountainous book-lined stairway, 

To the peak that, having surfaced from the well, revealed a bottomless sea,

The very one upon which I defied gravity and gods sailing to the sands

Upon a finned polyurethane prosthetic to landlocked quinquagenarians.  


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