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.  


Cardiff by the Sea


When the blue of sky and sea meet on the sun’s canvas, the world’s ills dissipate like wave vapor, crashed,  floated and sprayed, melding with motion, recycling life for us who pass through.

Buffoonery and lies flee then, preferring cyber print to airy flights and icy dives in the Earth’s teal liquid split from firmament in places and times like these: the road peeled back revealing popped village pockets like blisters.

Here, when the blues of stinging seas sob seabird song, throngs of the foolish schools of the unschooled turn to the sun, seeking to bleach wrongs white or pure golden.

No trace,  no nothing’s wrong here, the luscious hues just right for jog by smiles and sweet sweaty necks peeking through white pressed cotton tees tucked in creased linen tennis shorts.

A former Welsh fortress by the ocean free stands no longer firm, gone now but for those unaffected running on, keeping the tepid in and the cracked walled out, improbable as a teapot set sail on a vapid cup of tea.

Cardiff by the Sea breezes by me now and blushes me bright with springy lies of lucky losers and terrible saints, infamy tamed palatably blue, the color of infinity.