They fade so fast, all the waves in a weekend. The good and the bad. Gone before you know it. You try so hard to save some of them, to put them in the back of your brain, so you can take a taste a little later - maybe Monday morning, or Wednesday after work. But when you close your eyes, all you see is the sun and sand. For some reason, the waves went away. Which is why we're here, on the internet, so I can see the size and the shape. So that maybe I'll remember. That long left, with offshore wind blowing white water into my face - a blind drop followed by a big bottom turn - tucked low toward the top, skimming my fingers across the face. Or maybe I'll remember one more. A reasonably sized right, held open long past its prime, taking steps to increase speed. It's as if they need some time to settle. The memories that is. To take their place amongst all the other waves that weekend, or weekends past. Because I can see clearly something I surfed six weeks ago. Maybe more. But the ones this weekend, well, I might as well have been blindfolded.
Separation.
Dungie.
Early Offshore.
White Backs.
Panceta.
Plate Lunch.
Gustave.
Yaker.
Reel Life.
Heisenberg.
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