The Sap

The dirty looks amuse me. I see more pain and regret in them than ire. An old cumudgeonly neighbor can't help himself - he's always told me surfing is a waste of time, waste of a life. I don't see him when I'm loading the boards at a quarter to five. He's no doubt prone and lifeless, oblivious to the sounds of sets roaring in. But coming home, say around 3, he's there working on his quintessential yard-of-the-month - same khaki coveralls, static scowl. Some leashers are tangible, some are cerebral. I can't imagine a life where all i have is a cubicle and the biggest thrills are turning on a flattened boob tube. No, I don't planme people for not understanding surfing, but as far as judgment goes, it's doubtful there are any of us who should look farther than our own scuffled hands. Granted, we're all allowed a few vices in this life - mine revolve around aged sippin' whiskeys, old guitars, woman, oh sweet woman, and single fins. And yes, my main vice will always be the sea. Better that than iron clubs, or hell, country clubs for that matter. This is borrowed time indeed. I intend to make the most of it. Tide is a hair before 8 and coffee's on.

- Nathaniel Riverhourse Nakadate.