Tuesday, February 28, 2006


As ribbons of light
chase ribbons of wave
to the horizon, we whisper.
Outa control. Maybe up
at Canaveral it’s surfable.
A Sixty-two Corvair
on A-1-A,
a winter morning,
a winter swell;
a monster swell and we
are not the kids to attempt
the ride. No, not at Shark Pit.
We can see surfers there,
a few specks in the valley
of the swell, from atop
Sebastian bridge. We know
that even the paddle out
would be too much for us.
Head north. North past
the joggers waking themselves
in the wind. North past
Patrick, where no one is practicing
landings this morning.
At least it’s still offshore,
my brother mutters
and we nod but maybe
we’d just as soon the wind
came around and broke the back
of this swell, made it unrideable,
and we could sit in the Krystal
eating breakfast chili and taking
comfort in coffee. Canaveral.
Jetty Park. Last chance –
we can’t drive any further
along the coast and, hey,
it’s not bad! My new Rick
should handle these just fine
and Pat has his magic board
and so what if half the kids
in Cocoa are out in it?
So what if my morning classes
are a hundred miles in my past?
It’s Nineteen and Sixty-nine
and any trip is good.
Any trip at all.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

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