Riding the Crest

It was something about not always being in control that drove him. He could feel it below him, the water gliding propelling him forward. The vibrations from it as it slid over the waxed bottom of his board would travel from the tips of his toes, up his legs to his core. He swore he could hear it when it was under him - even over the roar of the collapsing tunnel of liquid behind him.

It was like playing chicken. Sure, he could ride the crest safely to the end, avoiding the dead zone that churned and spit at him. But where was the fun in that? It was a complete risk reward. He'd hunker down and reduce his speed, sliding into the mouth of the monster, inching his way, pumping his board back and forth as he went, just enough to maintain control and not tumbled back too far to where he couldn't return.

At any moment, the wave could shift - the water increase, a slight bit of chop could rattle his board, the wave could collapse on him, driving him deep below the surface, chewing him along with the sea foam - tossing him along the ocean floor like a doll - eventually spitting him out to float back to the surface. There were the times that it'd hold him under as the wave rolled toward the shore, dragging him along for the ride. His lungs would burn - wanting the sweat air that was awaiting him above the waves. His body would ache as it bounced off the sandy bottom. He knew to go limp - there was no use in trying to fight it. Once you were down there, below the waves, it was in control, to do with you what it pleased.

Just go with the flow.

As deeply as his lungs burned for the surface, as much as his eyes would burn from the salt, or no matter how much skin the sand would scrape off his body, he knew his place. The ocean reigned.

Other's through he was crazy - to temp the waves as much as he did.

He just liked knowing he wasn't invincible