Around the age of twenty I attended a concert given by the Beach Boys in Rotterdam, my birthplace. Willem, a boyfriend sitting next to me in the packed concert hall, had compromised his religious belief to be with me and go to the event on this holy Sunday. This sin afflicted him stronger, as I, carried by the music, got up, sang, waved, and moved my hips. “Surfin’ U.S.A.” echoed the hall and seized my core. It united me with those Beach Boys and the United States of America …
Pumped, my body is on alert. I’m hungry for the adrenaline rush granted when standing centered I experience union with nature. The feeling of connection with my core on the surf board is my aim. Driven by images of pockets in waves my mind does not let go. Will I be able to find the right grit? Will I master the gutsy turnaround on a perfect wave?
My second skin, a black wet-suit, protects me in winter cold water spots. Today, in the summer, I’m wearing a bathing suit.
Like a seagull flapping its wings, my light-weight waxed surfboard and I tread lightly. I glance at the three yellow fins under the tail. They will give me an edge on the sharks. Taking big steps my feet burn in the hot sand. I taste the salty water in my mouth, while my eyes meet Galveston’s beach and horizon. Intently I gage the foamy strength of waves thundering towards me. It’s a hot windy day. The distance between me and the occasional breaking wave I anticipate to practice my power turn with shortens as my breathing increases. I’m in the zone of guts and determination.
Today, I do not want the stillness or the quiet. My being responds to the wind, waves and the feeling of a slight danger knowing the sharks and I share territory.
It is forty years after the concert of the Beach Boys in Holland. The reality of life, the U.S. and my body are catching up with me. I now live in my New Holland surrounded not by the sea, but the mountains of Montana, which incidentally, millions of years ago, existed as a sea inlet. Here I attempt to create my own grit to surf the flow of life. I experience plenty of challenging waves rolling around me — creating new circles of friends, loosing others and giving meaning to this third phase of my life, which includes my first priority-the grandchildren.
Mastering life’s pop ups, getting to standing position on my waxed surfboard, often requires getting on my knees first. I want to stick to my center, move my hips and feel my core. Life’s waters run deep, be they of a salty sea with sharks that include some white ones or unpredictable currents in a sweet water river here in Montana.
Recently, I painted a banged up surf board, its image takes me back to that moment of perfect oneness, where I had let go next to Willem and stood up drawn in by “Surfin U.S.A.” My board on canvas carries shades of red, green and blue on mostly black. A mysterious circle at the top gives it strength. That stick is a boomerang to me and boosts reminders of past events where innocence carried me away. At other times when I feel raked over and the waters seem glassy my mascot spots the perfect crest inviting a pop-up with turnaround: a new adventure, a new learning, a new friend, an art project, a funny story. I hope I never stop dipping into that groove.
Thank you to Karen Barbier for technical surfing feedback and Bozeman Gypsy Rhythm Writers’ critique.
Pumped, my body is on alert. I’m hungry for the adrenaline rush granted when standing centered I experience union with nature. The feeling of connection with my core on the surf board is my aim. Driven by images of pockets in waves my mind does not let go. Will I be able to find the right grit? Will I master the gutsy turnaround on a perfect wave?
My second skin, a black wet-suit, protects me in winter cold water spots. Today, in the summer, I’m wearing a bathing suit.
Like a seagull flapping its wings, my light-weight waxed surfboard and I tread lightly. I glance at the three yellow fins under the tail. They will give me an edge on the sharks. Taking big steps my feet burn in the hot sand. I taste the salty water in my mouth, while my eyes meet Galveston’s beach and horizon. Intently I gage the foamy strength of waves thundering towards me. It’s a hot windy day. The distance between me and the occasional breaking wave I anticipate to practice my power turn with shortens as my breathing increases. I’m in the zone of guts and determination.
Today, I do not want the stillness or the quiet. My being responds to the wind, waves and the feeling of a slight danger knowing the sharks and I share territory.
It is forty years after the concert of the Beach Boys in Holland. The reality of life, the U.S. and my body are catching up with me. I now live in my New Holland surrounded not by the sea, but the mountains of Montana, which incidentally, millions of years ago, existed as a sea inlet. Here I attempt to create my own grit to surf the flow of life. I experience plenty of challenging waves rolling around me — creating new circles of friends, loosing others and giving meaning to this third phase of my life, which includes my first priority-the grandchildren.
Mastering life’s pop ups, getting to standing position on my waxed surfboard, often requires getting on my knees first. I want to stick to my center, move my hips and feel my core. Life’s waters run deep, be they of a salty sea with sharks that include some white ones or unpredictable currents in a sweet water river here in Montana.
Recently, I painted a banged up surf board, its image takes me back to that moment of perfect oneness, where I had let go next to Willem and stood up drawn in by “Surfin U.S.A.” My board on canvas carries shades of red, green and blue on mostly black. A mysterious circle at the top gives it strength. That stick is a boomerang to me and boosts reminders of past events where innocence carried me away. At other times when I feel raked over and the waters seem glassy my mascot spots the perfect crest inviting a pop-up with turnaround: a new adventure, a new learning, a new friend, an art project, a funny story. I hope I never stop dipping into that groove.
Thank you to Karen Barbier for technical surfing feedback and Bozeman Gypsy Rhythm Writers’ critique.