Old Wave Rider

By Clara Blair

It’s not at all like surfing
But still provides a rush
To partner with the ocean,
No handles, no brakes.

We’d walk out in the surf
To chest-high water
And wait
For the next wave.

Small waves, rollers,
Sometimes would break
Before they reached us,
Gently carrying us a yard or two.

But a big one would lift us
In the surge before it,
Then bring us toward the shore
In crashing foam and laughter.

When I was young and strong,
Riding the waves
Was the high point
Of any trip to the beach.

The Atlantic off Coney Island
Is cold even in August,
The Gulf off Port Aransas
Like a bath in October.

But riding the waves
Had the same unique feel –
Playing with danger, trusting the sea,
Hoping for luck.

I am no longer young
And must lean on a cane.
Riding the waves is but one
Of the things I can no longer do.

But I sit here on the shore
Watching the waves roll in.
My body remembers sensations
And memory soothes regret.

To remember riding the waves
Is like remembering love’s first kiss,
My grandfather’s laugh,
A dear great-aunt’s perfume.

My body remembers
The lift and pull of the sea
Like my baby
Feeding at my breast.

© 2002 Clara Blair, October 17, 2002