monikaa

He had bright blue zinka spotched all over his face. thin, twiggy, short little build. he didnt smile. it was hot. the waves werent pumping. small mushy sections came in sets. cross chop, onshore, humid, nasty. what did he have to smile about? its a hundred degrees and his parents left him to die in some surf camp in the middle of nowhere. on the edge of the atlantic ocean. on the brink of nothingness. He tried, though. his small chubby arms reached and scooped water, propelled himself forward ever so slowly. the tiny waves were head high on him, throwing him down. i swim over to him. Whats your name, bro? Sebby, he says. Its hot and this kid is not really excited. i grab the nose of his board, a 6'4 epoxy number someone gave him from the rental shed. Lets go, seb. Hop on and i'll pull you out. He hesitantly climbs on and i pull him past the whitewash. we chat. he doesnt want to tlk. his older brother was yelling at him. telling him to get a wave. but i know thats easier said than done. i ask him if he can stand up yet. He nods in a a little bit' way. I tell him to go for the next wave. he paddles, misses it. looks glummer than before i grabbed him. Another set is looming over the horizon, mushy lazy waves appear out of the murky waters. i push him into one. paddle, man, stand up! i half expected to see the board fly up out of no where. but the little kid appears in a second. this little kid, from some other town, far from waves, with his too-big rashguard and smudged zinka, is zoomin down the line of this head high left (on him). I saw him grin. I saw him look up and around to see who watched it. I know that feeling all to well. I looked to him and threw my hands up. sometimes the smallest wave can make someones day a million times better, even when its not you riding it....