The Tunnel: A Surfer’s Moment
The roar is stupendous
reverberates
through my whole body
encircles me
in a closing tunnel.
Fear and exhilaration
stand toe-to-toe
muscle-quivering.
Balance is all.
The hole beckons.
I am spat out
onto flatter waves
of lesser wonder.
Behind the words
Though I’ve never set a toenail on a surfboard, I’ve always been mesmerised by the grace and power of surfers shooting through an inexorably closing tunnel. (I realise that the proper term is ‘tube’ but, for me, ‘tunnel’ is more evocative.) To me, the power of the sea and the gutsiness of people who choose to envelop themselves in it are compelling. I was very pleased that this small poem won first prize in the 2021 Open Literary Competition for Port Writers (Port Macquarie, New South Wales, Australia).
Here’s another poem that I wrote about the sea.
The Sea
The sea is not for writing about
though shanties would say otherwise
it’s for wondering at and being awed
by the power contained
in a perfectly curved wave
poised, stilled in time
before it thunders down
into an exquisite unfolding
from crashing might to
its final flattening onto sand.
Behind the words
I wrote this poem at the same time as ‘The Tunnel: A Surfer’s Moment’ (above). While ‘The Tunnel’ is about those who ride the waves, this second poem is about the sea itself.
Other
The following story comes from a real experience I had in Malaysia many years ago.
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Boat Trip
I’m sitting on the beach at the end of a gently adventurous day early in our time in Malaysia. My husband Denis, our son Anthony and I are keen to explore a bit and a local fisherman has rowed us out to a promontory not far from our beach-side bungalow on the East Coast. At our request, he’s left us to have a look around. He’ll come back a few hours later – about now – to pick us up.
Except he isn’t here and it’s past the agreed time. We’re not worried yet. Denis and I have vaguely worked out a contingency plan if he doesn’t show up. There are still a few hours of daylight left and we could walk back home by land even though it’s about eight kilometres. Eight year old Anthony might not be thrilled but he’s a willing kid so it would be do-able. As the minutes tick by, I wander a little further up the beach to take a look around a large rock. And there he is – wizened, sunbeaten, sitting statue-still, gazing out to sea. I call out to him and am immediately amazed by his angry response. He’s furious that we’d kept him waiting. But it was just a misunderstanding as I tried to explain – we’d been waiting a little distance down the beach. The large rock had blocked our sight of each other. We’re not late. It was just a misunderstanding of where we’d re-meet. Still, he’s furious. My Bahasa is too limited to say anything other than ‘sorry, sorry, sorry’. I can see he’s surprised that I know enough of his language to offer an apology. He calms down immediately. Denis and Anthony join us at the rock and, amid much gesticulating, Denis wonders if we should offer more than the earlier agreed price. When he suggests this (his Bahasa is better than mine), a new arrangement is struck. We enjoy the trip back. It’s always more relaxing if your rowing person is in a good mood.
The Sea.
So many poems and stories have been inspired by the sea. This is another fine example.
The Tunnel : A Surfer's Moment
It would appear the author had that satori moment when observing the event.