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A
Story of Hope
I woke up before
dawn this morning. Didn't have much work to do, and what there was could
be put off. I glided through the breakfast routine in semi-consciousness,
picked up my surfboard from its spot in the corner of the room, and shuffled out
to the car.
The morning humidity
stuck to me. My rear window was sweating, making it difficult to see
behind me as I backed out of the driveway. I drove past the buildings on
Middle Street, all still asleep. They seemed to slouch just a little bit,
relieved of yesterday's onslaught of heat by a cool starry night. They
might have even been smiling a little bit, those contented dream smiles of
little children. I picked up speed over the Ben Sawyer Bridge, quiet,
waking, scanning the dark and glassy marsh below me.
Further on I drove,
through a passing mist and Mount Pleasant. The sky brightened as the
Cooper River Bridge took me over the harbor, a few yellow lights reflecting off
the water the only things alive. Through the brick projects and creaking
wood downtown, past gas stations and fast food restaurants on James Island, and
out to the precipice of the United States--Folly Beach. As I slowed down
to thirty, none of the palmetto trees rustled a greeting.
I found the
ocean, after thirty minutes of this trance-like drive. The waters were
still, the waves were spotlessly glassy, but only nibbling at the shore. I
sat on the hood of my car and watched the red sun come up, perfect and round.
The world seemed to hold its breath as it came, over the reeds and lands to the
west. A few other surfers pulled up and, like me, apparently found the
scene more interesting than the waves, because they just sat in their cars or
walked about the dunes. One guy was listening softly to Bob Marley.
I imagined I was in Costa Rica, taking my time getting ready for perfect six
foot surf. But I wasn't, the waves were small and I was in South Carolina.
I had made this morning voyage hundreds of times before and will do it hundreds
of times again, always gambling with my time and hoping the Atlantic will yield
decent, un-crowded morning surf. I checked out the rising sun one more
time, smiling to myself as I hopped down off my car and into the sand. The
white grains were cool on my feet. Looking out at the one foot waves
taking their sweet time spilling onto the shore, I imagined I was six inches
tall.
Maybe tomorrow.
Steve Biel
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