Out where the Earth ends
and chaos hums beneath your feet,
where the sky is raw and the sea never lies
that’s where you find it.
That’s where you find yourself.
Surfing isn’t a sport.
It’s a rebellion.
It’s a ritual of blood, breath, and bone
against the machine of comfort and fear.
Each paddle is a war cry.
Each wave is a cathedral collapsing under the weight of glory.
Each wipeout, a death,
each ride , a resurrection.
You are not playing with nature.
You are gambling your illusions against her ancient moods.
Salt tears open your skin.
The sun brands your flesh in gold.
The ocean rips the noise from your mind until only instinct remains —
pure, ruthless, radiant.
Here, there are no schedules.
No screens.
No small talk.
Only wind.
Only pulse.
Only the furious, beautiful now.
Fear?
It clutches your ribs
then explodes into a wild laughter
when you realize you were never in control.
Surfing cleans you like fire,
burns off the dead parts,
leaves you new, naked, alive.
It is meditation by surrender,
tanning by battle,
healing by obliteration.
You tune into currents that no mind can predict.
You read water like poetry written in rage and wonder.
You trust your body the way you trust a falling star —
with awe, with speed, with no guarantee of return.
And out there,
among strangers with sun-bleached smiles and salt-bitten souls,
you remember:
we are wild.
We are free.
We are more ocean than flesh.
The cliffs witness you.
The winds bless you.
The sea erases you, baptizes you, births you back
Surfing
not a sport.
Not even a passion.
A savage prayer
Amen