It’s not yet sunrise but my coffee is brewing,
stoked for what’s coming, can’t wait to start cruising.
“Goin’ to class?” my awakened roommate asks.
“Hell no,” says I, “El Niño is here, screw Shakespeare.
No time for literature, I’m surfing for sure.”
“Are there even waves?” my roommate replies,
“Magic Seaweed always lies.”
I say, “trust me on this, the swell chart aint’ wrong.”
“Ok,” he retorts. “Lemme’ grab my shit, I’m coming along.”
We hop on our bikes, our brakes probably busted,
boards under the arm, bike chains very rusted.
Starting our quest on 65 Sabado,
we feel the wind’s sting as the cool breeze does blow.
Our eyes are groggy, the weather’s quite foggy.
It’s cold outside and still low tide.
But upon these things my mind cannot dwell,
distracted by nothing, but the promise of swell.
Mobbin’ fast through Del Playa, lookin’ so fire,
Green grass at Dogshit Park, green as the Shire.
Passing friends’ houses as we blow through stop signs,
it’s too early for the cops, too early for fines.
I.V. becomes Elwood, road becomes trail,
our biking pace quickens, the ocean mist I inhale.
We race past Coal Oil Point, eyes on the prize,
our backs being warmed by the stunning sunrise.
Arrived at Sands Beach, wetsuits on.
Paddling out, the current is strong.
Can’t wait to score waves, can’t wait to throw tail,
but each wave is a close-out, on each wave I bail.
As the session goes on, my stoke disappears,
for the lineup is crowded, confirming my fears.
I love you Sands, I really do,
but there’s just so much stuff that I hate about you.
In your waters the kooks find their niche,
and to top it all off, you’re one fickle bitch.
Your rocks are sharp when my feet feel numb,
you’re always crowded when the waves are fun.
Duck-diving my board is often quite sketchy,
It’s randomly shallow where the waves get real wedgy.
And the tar on my feet? Not so sweet.
So I paddle to shore and concede my defeat.
So what should I do, with a beach like you?
Should this hobby I quit? Actually go to my
lectures and to the “Man” submit?
But then I realize something, something quite rad:
I live on the beach, so why am I mad?
Like the stages of life, our waves can suck,
but then I remember: I’m lucky as fuck!
I can still surf waves in my own backyard,
a perfect de-stresser for when college gets hard.
“There’s so much to be thankful for,” Sands always reminds me,
“Did you even notice that sunset behind Platform Holly?”
I realize then that there’s so much I’ve been missing,
while complaining about waves, constantly bitching.
So nowadays when I paddle out,
I still drop in on that big close-out.
Sands for me is a place where the world sits still,
where I can think ever-so clear and forget all my fears.
And every now and then, when the waves turn on,
I love getting out there, early at dawn.
Sands is my refuge, Sands is my home.
Sands is the place where we surfers roam.
When times get tough and life gets hard,
I seek the waves in my own backyard.