There will be a final wave someday, a final ocean swim. Will I know when? Or will the moment pass unrecorded, visible only in retrospect?
Time and tide wait for no one. The years pile up. We flower and fade.
“Everything’s mine, but just on loan,” wrote the Polish poet Wisława Szymborska.
I am conscious of that now.
I love to be lifted by a rising wall of water and hurled like a spear down the face of a wave – to skim across the ocean in a single, thrilling breath, propelled on white foam to the shore.
In the moment, beyond all thought, I ride the finite wave.
