Waist Deep

I had been in the water for awhile. Five hours following a big breakfast, on what was our second day of surfing after a handful of weekends without waves, or too much wind. I was exhausted. Arms unable to bring my board back from the beach. A beer was all I wanted. Some kind of cold can. But because I had been paddling back and forth, looking for that perfect peak, I was about a quarter mile south of where I started - which is one hell of a long walk when there's a Feral Pig under you arm.

Right as I rounded the corner into the campground, Andy came running - wetsuit around his waist, my waterproof camera in his hand. "Get back out there, Juice!" Fuck. "Just a few photos. You and Karissa are always taking pictures of me, it's time I returned the favor." Fair. But I was in no condition to continue. Tired is an understatement. But there was still stoke to be mined, and Andy was willing to take a few photos - evidence of our efforts. So I paddled out, pitched a few tight turns and tried to twinkle some toes. Thankfully the camera was damn near dead, so there was only time for five or six photos.

Pig Pusher.

Blue Green.

Crossed Up.

Other End.

Fuzzy Face.

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