In the game of waves, the waves always win . . .
but then again, so do you . . .
as long as you play, as long as you push,
as long as you get off your ass and ride the wave.
- Tui Mao
Waves tend to roll in sets.
Most days the sea is calm as lead,
but sometimes you strike gold in roars of
swell blown off a raging typhoon that sucks in
spitting spinning washing machine moments.
Ride the wave,
they say, even if she’s a brutal rapist,
even if a saltwater colonic steals your aquamarine virginity
long before your midlife enema,
even if rigid rocks smash your ride,
sever your safety line, and serve you to the sharks,
even if coral cuts your toes into pickled prunes and
shreds your shins with slits of gills
Ride the wave,
but beware the rip. It can suck you out
to a panoramic seascape in a slither of a second.
Swim against the snake and he swallows you head to toe.
To give him the slip paddle perpendicular to his path,
find the set, wait for Sara
and ride her to the sand.
Find your breath, find your bollocks,
sit, relax, reflect, repair, return to the water
and Ride the wave.
Fight foamy chopping whitewash
on your way out,
find the rhythm of the rolling walls,
duck beneath the dumping breakers
past the mash and out to glass.
Liquid hills pile up in packs,
the third peak winks over the rest.
Lovers make eyes and decide to dance
patience, poise, persistence. . .
remember your P’s and don’t be a pussy.
Paddle
Push
Pray
Rhythm is everything.
Before her feathers can tickle your stomach
the liquid mountain rises.
Caught between base camp and the summit
you realize you’re out of time.
The avalanche falls and folds you ass over end.
You’ve wound up in the spin-cycle
gasping for life, filling your lungs with liquid
darkness, silence, sinking,
fight with flailing limbs and
drag yourself deeper.
Don’t panic.
Abandon heaven and hell,
surrender your soul to the sea,
melt into the water,
and ride the wave.
Neptune spews you from the depths and
light breaks the surface as you convert to a cork.
One good breath, and here comes the rest of the set
beating you down with fluid fists.
As the blows rain on your head, you begin to fight,
but a light flickers inside.
Just close your eyes and nuzzle Mother Ocean,
so you can giggle like a schoolgirl
when she plops you gently on the shore,
the sun-warmed sand cradling your fragile frame
as the fleeting foam fondles
your bleeding toes
and the salt informs
your dripping nose
that your head’s
already begging
for more.
*All words in italics were spoken by Tui Mao and are not the words of the author.
