Salt Water and Concrete Waves

NOV 2024A day between the beach and the bowl

Morning swell off the pier, afternoon lines in a concrete bowl. One long November day with bearded brothers who ride whatever wave the day gives them.

The day started on the sand. Salt in the beard, tattoos drying in the sun, a board tucked under one arm and the pier stretching out into a sky with no clouds in it.

No warm-up, no ceremony. Wetsuit zipped, he walked straight into the water.

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From the pier you could follow every line: the drop, the bottom turn, the spray thrown off the lip. Young beards and grey beards shared the same peaks and called each other into waves.

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Back on dry land, dripping and grinning, a thumbs-up for the camera. But the day wasn’t finished. The waves had only changed material.

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Beanie on, jeans rolled, arms out wide. The bowl doesn’t move like the ocean, but he rode it the same way — loose, low, laughing when the wheels hung up on the coping.

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By late afternoon the sun came in sideways through the fence and turned the whole park gold. The bowl filled with long shadows and the sound of urethane on concrete.

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Last light in the driver’s seat, sunglasses still on, a smile that said the day had been worth it. Ocean in the morning, concrete in the evening — one beard, two kinds of wave.

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