For time immemorial, I was set in a trance. A trance more selfish than hypnotic, really, but nonetheless a romanticized fantasy. Like a broken cassette player, I would process everything until I reached a scratch, and instead of skipping over it, I would replay the same, vexing, two-second scene until someone would finally set me straight. The inevitable scratch? Summer. The repeating bit? Surfing.
That the tingling sensation I would get during spring was onset not by the revival of nature itself, but by my laptop’s excessive radiation from running too many surfing videos is arbitrary. That I was encapsulated in the aesthetic breaks of pure azure of a faraway shore as to discount reality is unforgiveable.
When I finally reached surf, my disappointment was unbearable. Where was the enlightenment? Where was my moment of purity? A whole movement of surfers insistent in their claim of having reached a state of inner peace, minimal crime and no war, and I still could not sense the sublime. I spent my last day teaching kids to surf, and that’s when it hit me: If kids are raised to engage in peaceful and positive activities, their kids will have no reason not to play together. By accepting our role in the love-filled, interwoven fabric that is surfing, our world is liberated from the fog of war it has come to embrace. Ironic as it is, world peace could be as simple as bringing up a generation of lovers, a generation of surfers.