I went for a swim in the setting sun. It was high tide, so I could only stand on the edge between beach and sea, having the ravenous waves wash over me, on after the other.
The power in the surge of water, pulling back in anticipation of the next wave. Standing there, having it grow like a wall in front of me, until it breaks and crashes down on me in a determined white foam.
Being at the mercy of something so powerful, so inhuman. It’s a rush.
If I was a surfer, I’m sure the feeling would be the same when catching the perfect wave, only enhanced ten times over.
Like the moment when the horse leaves the ground in the jump over a high fence. Or when finally letting go and rushing down a steep snow-covered slope on skis.
But considering my indifference toward tropical beaches, I’m not likely to find myself on a good surfing beach anytime soon. I really should find the time and money to go skiing again. Soon.
Katja Malmborg 