Essay on The Narrative

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Essay #1: The Narrative The waves crashed down at a velocity only measurable by Mother Nature plunged me down into the abyss of the ocean floor. Her volume and mass of water tossed me around like a pin ball bouncing off rubber paddles. I helplessly squirmed around trying to find my sense of direction. Thoughts of accepting a trophy, coated with a glazy gold plastic dip, on a podium at the Olympics ran through my head as I demonstrated different variations of underwater cartwheels: one handed, two handed, and round off. I finally reached the bottom of the cold murky Manhattan Beach shore where particles of sand engulfed my toes. Having noticed the drop of beats per minute in my heart due to the lack of oxygen, I suddenly turned into a dolphin frantically swimming to the surface of the water for a fresh gasp of air. I opened my squinted eyes, looked for my 6’8 surfboard, sat on it, and faced towards the waves. After I struggled to learn the art of surfing, I finally learned how to surf and its metaphorical meaning to it. Bicycle bells ringing to aware pedestrians/surfers to move out of the bike path, a lady wearing a brown bamboo hat feeding the birds with her husband, and a European chick smothering slabs of sun block on her friend that looked like she came out of a surfing magazine were the first things I noticed at the beach. My attention suddenly adhered to the sound of rams clashing their horns for dominance or, in other words, Mother Nature’s ocean of brute force and aggression. My friend, who finally snapped me out of my trance, yells out “let’s go bro you are not going to learn by simply starring at the waves!” I strapped my warm Dakine branded leash to my ankle, cuffed my sticky sex wax coated surfboard in between my arm pits, and tip-toed my way out of the scorching hot parking lot. A sense of urgency arose to my attention in thoughts of riding my first wave. As I stood in front of the ocean, I inhaled a dense clump of air. The smell of crisp salt, seaweed and the fish market inundated my exuberant thoughts of swimming in the ocean with fish that I ate for dinner. I paddled out in search for the oceans kind tender love, but instead received the opposite. She slapped me in the face with a wave that appeared to be 6 feet high, flipped my board over and spat me out of her stomach as if I was food that was poisoning her body. I was disgruntled and dissatisfied with my performance, which lead me back to the drawing board. Giving up was definitely not an option for me at the time so, I got back to my feet, stretched my legs, tilted my head sideways, and jumped. The water in my ear slowly trickled down my lobe causing my senses to become keener. Then I noticed baby footsteps scattered throughout the sand which indicated a child in his youthful leisure. His energy is what inspired me to tackle the wave without a care in the world. Like a child running out of his class on the last day of school out for the summer, in the same way, I firmly gripped my board and dashed back to the ocean. I sat on my board while I waited for another set of waves to come and attempt to challenge the limit of my body’s strength/balance. A flock of birds migrating south added shades of orange to the sky with every stroke from their feathered wings. I looked at the oceans periphery and saw the horizon, simultaneously, drooping earth’s shutters and slowly blinding us from daylight. It was getting late. I needed to surf a wave. Having suddenly noticed a treacherous wall of water slowly creeping up to attack the surfers like it was hungry for flesh, I grabbed the rail of my surfboard as if it were my weapon of choice. I felt the waves torque through my legs and told myself “this is going to be a big one!” It picked me up about 7 feet high and positioned me in a 45…
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