Trip

Trip

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 Monster Hole. 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

appeared in the “Retellings” collection