And another year turns if you're some sort of a teacher and at the school year's end. Spending time with so many teenagers - a good nine months of sharing stories, getting through rough mixes, and celebrating our victories, and everything else that goes along with a school year - and there's a lot going on - believe me - and so, with all those quick yet long memories, we take out our dusty boards, wipe them clean, melt the old wax, straighten out the chords, check the fins, admire the glass, check the wet suit, crinkly in its aging cracks, strap the boards to the roof, open the windows to the crisp salt air, and chase the early summer dawns towards glass, kelp, salt, sand, tar, wax, fog, water cold and ready - we run in innocence, we run in in experience like Blake upon a carving, like Huck into the river, like Dean Moriarty furiously rushing across the western states, like Ulysses back to Greece (well, maybe not), we travel west and travel south for adventure, friends, and occasional hill of water.
