I have a secret wave

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