He taught me how to read the water. Not just to see it-

But to feel its weight, its mood.

He'd nod toward the horizon and say, "Watch how it's forming."

He showed me how a dumper reveals itself before it breaks

How the slope of the beach, the wind, the shape of the wave all speak if you’re willing to listen.

It wasn’t about conquering the sea. It was about learning its language.

Reading the wave meant knowing when to dive under, when to kick, when to let it carry you.

It meant trust.

Trust in the ocean, in the body, in the teaching that doesn't come with words.

He taught me the timing.

Too early, and the wave lifts you but leaves you behind.

Too late, and it slams you into sand, tumbled, gasping.

But just right

Just that moment of alignment

And you're flying.

Not because you're strong, or fast, or brave.

Because you listened.

Because you waited.

Because you felt the pull before it rose.

That was his way of teaching:

Not to dominate the wave,

But to know its rhythm.

To move with, not against.

To feel the right time- and to trust it.

Some waves you don’t catch.

Some, you dive under.

He taught me that too.

When the lip starts to curl and there’s no time to ride it

Go deep.

Hold your breath and let it pass over.

There’s a stillness down there,

just for a second.

A hush in the chaos.

It’s not about avoiding the wave,

it’s about understanding when to surrender.

Going under is not failure.

It’s wisdom.

The kind that comes from reading the water,

from knowing your body,

from learning not to fight what’s bigger than you.

After the waves, after the tumbling and trying and getting it wrong-

there was lemon cordial.

Cloudy. Sweet. Sharp on the tongue.

He handed me the cup,

We sat, legs coated in salt and grit.

A couple of sand grazes

No need to speak.

The water had already said what needed saying.

The lemon lingered.

A trace of care.

A kind of teaching too.