At in the first place, there's a feeling of skepticism. Clearly, this can't be occurring, I contemplate internally as a goliath wave ascends from profound water to fill the skyline with melancholy and danger. That is to say, indeed, beyond any doubt, I'm in the sea on a day when awkwardly vast waves are breaking, and I put myself here intentionally, however this wave—this is essentially excessively. I didn't agree to accept waves this way. It's an insult, truly. How set out this wave place me in this awkward position. I'd nearly be outraged on the off chance that I wasn't surging with adrenaline.

Next, a speedy arrangement of activity.

I can for all intents and purposes check the strokes it will take to paddle sufficiently close to this watery guillotine hurrying toward me to jump underneath it. On the off chance that I can simply achieve the pocket of quiet at the trough of the wave as it assembles itself to full stature and begins to pitch its lip forward, I can go underneath, untouched (ish), riding a little transport line of water pulling through the base of the wave, ascending to the surface simply behind it, safe from the aggregate fierceness the breaking lip is releasing simply shoreward.

However, I can't achieve that pocket. Not this time.

I will wear this wave ideal on the head. I will attempt to plunge underneath it, however the lip will punch down through the surface, discover me quickly kicking far from it, snatch me in its inevitable clench hand like it's a damn tractor pillar appropriate out of Star Wars, and afterward shake and whip me like a puppy tearing separated a ragdoll.

On the off chance that the water's adequately profound, I know, I'll flip and turn apparently for a considerable length of time, as if I'm in a mammoth, crazy clothes washer, no thought of which route is up or down, helpless before a relentless ocean.

On the off chance that the wave is breaking in shallow water, it will endeavor to delete my reality by spreading my body into a mash on the sandbar, or more awful, sharp reef, underneath.

I'm thinking about the greater part of this, measuring my chances, as I'm hysterically ripping at the water, asking the sea, god, anything truly, to give me a chance to achieve the wave before crap hits the fan, and one of the above doomsday situations works out as intended.

Be that as it may, at that point, dependably, that blaze of valor. You've been here previously. A vast number of times. There may be a yowl that tries to rise to the surface, yet: no, not today. Rather, an energized hoot, intended to remind me this is all fun, would it say it isn't? Possibly get the distraught, crazed-creature eye of the paddler beside me, playing out his or her own particular round of consider the possibility that. In the event that there can be a common grin, a chuckle, in that short snapshot of eye to eye connection, the dread vanishes. What's there to fear in any case!

Tolerantly, all musings stop when the wave at last touches base with the touchy energy of a crashed cargo prepare. There are no more moves to make, other than to try to avoid panicking, let it happen. To give it a chance to pass. No more consider the possibility that situations to gone through the brain. A zen-like condition of acknowledgment. A wondering, maybe, at the great energy of the sea.

At that point, as fast as it started, the grasp reduces, and there is peace. That wasn't so awful. Accumulate the board, ensure it's in one piece.

At that point do everything over once more.