I have had a few lifetimes since Windansea, all but one of them on the soft, seaside edge of this hard planet, gazing into the boundless horizon of an undulating sea. I have witnessed the disappearance of every other wilderness I have known, on every continent I have visited. I have drawn my line in the sand. I hug the surf-swept beach, so that I may immerse myself daily in this ocean wilderness that haunts our waking dreams, electrifying me with its wild-wire connection to our genetic code, a seascape as familiar and challenging and rewarding as it was the day our ancestors first emerged from the central plains of Africa to stalk its silky shore.
No wonder we love and respect, cherish and protect our ocean. No wonder we pay millions to live beside every shoreline inch of her. No wonder we dance on her edge and feverishly shed our clothing and civilization and the crumbling world at our backs to plunge into the welcome homecoming of her cool embrace. No wonder we are surfers, till death do us part.
Surfboards are life savers, plastic-age play tools for a man overboard.