I have a secret wave, one I only ever surf by myself.
It's always a solid 8-10 foot and the emerald green lip pitches so thick and heavy that the world descends into darkness when I'm in her belly. I tell my friends about it, but they just laugh at me and think I'm winding them up.
Well screw them, it's their bad luck.
I mean, sure it isn't in the ocean - it isn't even near the ocean, but man it feels as real as only the biggest slab of chilly, imploding brine can. Each barrel I get provides those precious few moments of peace and purpose that get me through my day, and luckily, it's right where I need it; uni.
Photo: Roubs, Squeak and Mac
Photo editing: Roubs
Uni has always been tough for me. Not because of the work, but
because I despise the people there – the fresh faced enthusiasm, the easy
friendships, and the optimism about the future. I like to scoff at my
classmates, sneering at their readiness to cast into the slacks and ties mould,
as though their acceptance of the status quo is a weakness. Deep in my heart I
know this to be a self-deception, but it's one that seems to provide some
definition and protection in my life, as well as some space to breathe. I'm not
proud of my condescension, in fact I wish I was more accepting. But I'm not.
The reality is people make me tetchy. The game of socialising leaves me anxious
and unsure, so I push people away and use the ocean as my crutch, my refuge.
I like the ocean, and luckily, the ocean seems to like me. Or
maybe it's indifferent and I just see what I want to see. The one thing I do
know is that in the ocean I am safe. Safe from the land sharks, the pressures,
expectations and most of all the introspection.
But surfs can be few and far between at times, especially when
exams are upon me, causing anxiety to run high. The stress peaks and it hits me
that no matter how much I deride the system around me, I am still a part of it,
and this means I must abide by their standards – the exam results count.
Damn the lie’s flaw!
Sleep becomes seldom, a whole semester is absorbed in a few days
and coffee is my friend, lover, torturer, master and slave.
It is during these times that I turn to my special leafy barrel.
I walk through it on my way into uni, my body lulling into the
familiar rhythms of the ocean, just through the power of visualisation. I can
almost feel the sand beneath my toes and the fresh smell of the salt on the
breeze.
Sure, to the eye of man the tree seems to be almost static, at
least measured in human breaths. But looked at by the universe amongst the long
and lonely darkness of time, it undoubtedly appears like a crashing wave – The
loam and the leaf litter forever drawing up and out to the tree’s tips before
plowing back into the earth as the branches arc back towards the soil, crisp
yellow leaves billowing up like white wash.
Deep in the leafy pit’s womb I assume the stance; Back knee bent
and in, front leg straight, chest up proud and strong. I drag my hand on the
bark of the trunk – more to orientate myself and for some sensual synergy than
to control my speed. After all, if you’re going to ride a meaty shack, you
might as well do it with style.
With my line set I relax and allow myself to drink in the view.
Beyond the darkness of the pitching canopy over head I can see out to the sun
dappled world, to the positive folk full of purpose, goals and dreams of
financial ascendancy. And they can see me too.
The awareness tears me from the peaceful reverie of my tree.
I wonder what they think of me, standing there in my Leafy
haven. Are they as condescending towards me as I am of them? Do they pity me?
Are they curious? Are they even really aware of me at all?
I can almost hear the chatter between them - my divergent behaviour
attracting glances. Who is
this peaceful looking man standing in a rapturous pose beneath that tree?
That’s certainly not the behaviour of someone to be trusted with the fine
details that stitch up a company’s financials. And he has that dreamy look –
seeing the arbitrary and fitting soft edged jigsaws together without care or
consequence for the maligned hard edges.
Hell, he probably hasn’t thought about the treatment of
intangibles under the new accounting standards. Or at least that was what I imagined. In reality they were
probably so caught up in their own world I barely registered, but I did
register with one person – Dickie.
Dickie is an oddity. He is an ageing accounting academic who
sports a long sun-bleached ponytail and strolls about campus in sandals, a
cigarette behind his ear. He is Sir Anthony Hopkin’s hippy body double, laid
back and at the mercy of whimsy. In his younger days Dickie had been a mad keen
surfer, something we had talked about a number of times.
He was leaning against the Law & Commerce building, smoking
a cigarette, looking straight at me. As our eyes met he gave me an almost
imperceptible nod, as if to say ‘Don’t give up on yourself Lad. The world is
full of ascetic grey men and women who can work the machine’s levers. Hold on
to that colour’.
With that I shut my eyes and brought myself back to the ocean –
to block out the introspection and pressures I saw in the world. I felt the
thrumming of the water as it cycled beneath my feet and again became aware of
the lip throwing above me. With one final breath I stepped forward and felt
myself accelerate out of the heaving barrel’s mouth, the wave's spray erupting
behind me, sending me recharged back into a world so taxing.
By Headbounce
Headbounce
