Newport Shortboards

July 25, 1995  (I was 50)

Newport Shortboards

The colors of surfing come from Hollywood

The real thing at Newport Beach is a study in grey

Shortly after dawn a vague horizon

separates the known sky from the known sea

an indistinct mingling wash from tarnished silver

down to a rippled granite green below

The incessant ssh ssh of ocean has the aural presence

of the constant hiss from California freeways

Distant waves wait then one by one

lift into a long ridge that rises beyond rock jetties

to proceed mechanically toward the shore

break high in predicable foamy fashion

and sweep to play into a thin mirror

long upon the sand

Hundreds of half-surfers in wetsuits dot the pewter surface

like dark waterbugs in a bobbing conglomeration

A few push up spider-like on selected swells

to ride tentatively a dozen yards before dropping

pulling off the wave and foraging back for another

or they tumble headlong somersaulting into the surf

or are flicked off in angular ricochet against the water

or they pump up and down in an awkward bounce

for a power that is not there

It is a long wait to see the long graceful slide

of one preceding a curl and carving turns

with the hula-hoop moves below a steady torso

you see so easily depicted in the movies

Most seem never able to leave the bobbing commune

displaying the frantic patience of aimless ants

going nowhere along a crest of anthills

They do not hear the heart pounding timpani

and deep noted trombone ensembles of Endless Summer

Nor do they quick cut from sapphire slides

across diamond sparkling lens flares

to enter emerald tubes in Hawaii

then emerging on the crystal shores of West Africa

Like most of us sipping coffee on our rented porches

these Californians work for everything they get