Frankie’s Wave

by Harry B. Sanderford

It was down to him now, the last man standing and the only one left looking east on this chilly Saturday morning dawn patrol. "Screw it" he said and set his coffee on the old Rambler’s dashboard before grabbing his wetsuit out of the back seat and tugging it right side out. A quick towel change later he zipped up, unstrapped his board from the roof rack, grabbed it by the rail and flipping it once caught it one handed before tucking it under his arm and trotting off down the beach. Near the water's edge he stopped to stretch and watched the lead wave of a new set build into a perfect feathery lipped peak at the exact moment that the first rays of sunlight topped the horizon glinting green and gold through the pitching lip of the unridden tube. It was a pristine and privileged sight witnessed only on rare occasions but on this morning such beauty was unbearable. This empty perfection would not last he knew as he turned his back on the surf to follow his shadow back up the beach.


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