Of Jelly Fish and Judo

October 13, 2015 by Rieshy

Feet paddling, arms out palms down superman style,
Waiting for that surge of surf, that aligning catch of swell;
Waiting patiently, rolling over Poisidon's shoulder and soaring,
Bodysurfing, cresting above blue green seas, below blue gray skies
to the rhythm of seagull cries.
Towards shore and unloading tumble into sandy foamy salt, sometimes with splats.

My Dad in his short 1970's trunks, soaked white t-shirt and sun blackened skin must have shown me how a thousand times. Ever fishing-hat-hatted.  Ever with a grin.

I wiped out a thousand and one, wondering how ten pounds of sand could fill a bathing suit crotch lining that was impossible to remove in public.
Again and again 'til lips turned blue with chill and momma noticed, or the absolute official maritime ender of lessons and joy swelled in.

Damned Jelly Fish.

Riding waves of shoulders, an Uke soaring circles to softening mats and satisfying controlled thumps, minus the salt, unless sweat counts; but it doesn't.
Then being the shoulder, whose timing, coordination and patience needing an ocean's wave worth of alignment wipes out a thousand and one with splatting bumps of uncontrolled thumps.

Again and again, 'til, a wayward surge of apology causing tentacles of stinging doubts, the self-conscious martial ender of learning and joy, swell in.

Damned Mental Jelly Fish


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