This weekend, however, we found the fickle. The right place at the right time. We could hear it from the front seat of Fargo, breaking over a shallow rock bottom. Small stones leading to a sandy shore, with tall trees flung this way and that. We watched it for awhile. It was us and an eagle. We'd been on the road and were eager for anything. Waist high? Maybe a bit bigger. Clean, but closing quickly. We surfed until sundown. Flying down the face, pulling in and out, trying not to stuff our sticks into the sand. How better to spend a Sunday than surfing somewhere, suddenly, with someone you love.
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