Beams of light explode over the soft sand,
i can feel the warmth on my face as i sit on the beach,
sinking softly into natures warm bed.
The light seems to turn everything it touches
into a glowing ball of light,
as if god himself is smiling down at the dawn of a new day.
The beach is deserted apart from a few seagulls
that seem to share this enlightened appreciation.
I grab my board and walk slowly towards the sand,
my feet sinking into the grains,
feeling the consistency change as the water laps at my ankles.
My wetsuit keeps me surprisingly warm
as the cold water rises slowly, and i close my eyes,
holding my board under one arm.
I smell the salt, the fresh air, this is what beauty is.
I wander in, losing myself in this new environment.
I duck quickly underwater wetting my hair and face,
floating weightlessly in the water for a second,
before rising, feeling fresh as i grab my floating board and straddle it.
Leaning forward, i can seeing fish scatter
as the first wave washes over me
like a tilde wave of emotions and stress,
i wipe the slate clean,
i am the tabula rasa and this is a new day.

Go grab your wetsuit
your sunblock and wax
go get a clean towel
put them all in your pack
I'll watch as the sun beams from your face
and feel the breeze stirred by your running flip-flopped feet
I'll laugh as you shout "YES" and fistpump the air
This is us.
Our thing.
We.
Surfs up li'l dude!

Caribbean waters wrench my gut
with an instinct to sail too far
into the blue plunge
of shark-finned waters
and sharp, yellow coral structures.
Those nature beasts rip wetsuit,
my sleek, stone shade wall from internal chill.
I am, feel, like a tanned fish
on these tire-weathered, cement streets.
Towering above are the heavy looks
down
from windows of sunned glass castles
of plastic and sweat.
They're calling,
pied pipers, to what is steel-stable
and rooted, in unforgiving fashion,
to the death of primal sense.
The urge to rip apart is tied back
around collared neck.

My boat is ashore
as I sea-dream-see of horizons unseen
while clenching an ill-fated
armrest desk of destiny
unexplored.

I've slept for two days minus some hours I went out to buy cat food
Today I went to the pool in the rain, and chugged along back and forth
out of breath, encased in a partial wetsuit, watching the water steam at
times, and then glitter, with bright designs as the sun came out for a moment
And I return home to a monumental mess.  
Somehow it just didn't matter, this mess as I struggled at work, fighting
a lame diagnosis that "you are just too anxious for this job because you get nervous
before evaluations" from a man easily as anxious as I am, but much less aware of it
The work rained down on me like a waterfall, and I couldn't stay dry
Weekends gave way to endless work sessions and some sleep
Suddenly, as if for the first time, I see how much paper is strewn on the floor,
arranged by cats who inhabit this place far more than I do.
The piles of unsorted things I would "get to on vacation" are now
there, waiting to be gotten to.
It's clear I am one who values work above housekeeping and the happiness of the
little creatures who inhabit my world before order.
And that's just fine with me.

horse aligned coil/roll of wave.
the bearded heat of sun unto birds, land **.
poseidon’s son was a bird,
out there/

                /there was a molten breach in the fissures deep.
it breathed an ooze of mother blood orange and hissing.
the coral lords photosynthesize cities from out of reef material.
where tree the family of fish, diverse and good people.
good dancers of the primordial dip.

tri-tipped dip of chips.
trident tugged zippers.
wetsuit squishy skin released.

the violent stories of men and ships.
the men and lumber treading dawn with prawns and lime.
island boys, as
big show trapeze lovers flung,
no,
as trapped monsters singing jingles
in jungles
in june.

           or july.

           the theory of hopeless elements is crushing/
           water: or currents unending.
           all above.
           all below.

So That Others May Live

My son and I go down to the beach today
And lay claim to a small square of sand
Where we ***** a blue plantation of shade
Inside a red umbrella city founded by dermatologists.

Slow cooking like a pair of pork chops basted in SPF 30
He reads a Jack Reacher novel, myself the LA Times
Occasionally, he looks up from his book and shares a passage:
How about I show you the inside of an ambulance?

The girlfriend his from Kentucky has never been to the beach
She is ensconced in the best chair eating watermelon
Reading poetry by Rupi Kaur god bless her
She should have the best seat if she’s reading poetry.

People form Iowa and Minnesota you know the ones
In the parcel of sand between us and the ocean
Have lain towels and blankets far too near the tide line and
Come noon we enjoy their Midwestern diaspora to higher ground.

We body surf in waves that are bigger than they look
He wears the right fin and I wear the left
I bounce off the bottom and get my *** sand papered
Then tumble into him like a forgotten dollar bill in a wash machine.

In the parking lot laughing and spitting salt water
I pour a bucket of sand out of my wetsuit onto the hot asphalt
And realize it will never be this way again and it won’t
The lines in his face a perfect nautical map of the future.

I remember the last time I went surfing.
I loved every second of it. I loved running out into the icy water, the chill taking a second to hit the vulnerable skin under my wetsuit. Those fleeting seconds of running ankle deep in the water before realizing how cold it is, and the moments following where I just kept running anyway, my body and board becoming dispersed in sea froth. I loved feeling my feet sink into the grainy sand as I gradually reach a depth that touches above my waist, then, bracing myself for the numbing cold, diving onto my board, immersing my top half in the crisp temperature the water holds. After the piercing cold is absorbed by my skin, and I am lying flat on smooth fiberglass, I see a wave forming in the distance. In a hurry, paddling madly, grazing my hands on the fiberglass sides of the board, desperate to get deep enough to catch the wave. I turn the board around and feel the wave coming behind me. This is the moment. The moment that feels like waiting for your plane to take off, or waiting for a raffle to be drawn, hoping desperately to hear your name called out. I feel the swell behind me, and continue paddling, facing the shore this time. I can feel it as a powerful but consistent surge brings the nose of my board up, and I hurry to lift myself up. I am crouching. My hands nervously let go of the sides. I am bent over. I am straightening. I am standing. My palms are flailing madly, but feel free in the warmer air. Within seconds, I lose my balance and the rush pulls me under. I fall off the board and take a mouthful of seawater. I emerge, laughing, trying to stabilize my focus and figure out whereabouts on the beach I am. As I drag the board back to shore, the salty sea water is already drying in my hair, fingernails and skin. I feel the familiar crunch of dry sand, and collapse, laughing, into the soft grains. I could do this again.

I was so excited to finally have my own surfboard. Brand new, I just hadn't had the chance to take it out yet. My brother asked to borrow it one day, and I couldn't see why not. He helped me attach the fins and leg rope, and I watched him walk away with my latest investment.

I was going into the garage to find something when I saw it there, in half, the fiberglass peeled towards the nose, the insides stuffed with sand, lying in a pile. The next day, my brother came home to find me waiting for him outside his room. "I have good and bad news! The bad news is, I broke your surfboard, the good news is, you now have two boogie boards!". I am sitting.

If anyone can make a feral animal print cool it’s Arabella Ramsay. The designer, who skipped the city in favour of the coast a few years ago, has launched a new lifestyle brand in collaboration with her dad Dougal Ramsay, an accomplished artist who has designed ranges affectionately named after all things Aussie; Hello Cocky, G’day Love, Veg Out.

Burnt out from more than a decade in the fashion industry rat race where she had amassed a cult following among adoring 20-somethings and private school girls for her unique apparel, Arabella shut her Melbourne shop five years ago and moved to Jan Juc where her husband has a yoga studio, her daughters play with bunnies and organic eggs are collected from the backyard coop.

Yet the fashion industry has come calling again, albeit in a different guise born of her slower lifestyle and rearing two children. A born and bred farm girl from Kyneton, she has forgone on-trend collections and retail overheads for family-friendly leisurewear and an online boutique.

The print-heavy collection features irreverent Australiana imagery created by her dad: “Bonza” bunnies, cheeky runaway gnomes, larrikin cockatoos, and come summer, a “******” croc print. The coloured sketches run across all-over yardage on leggings, hoodies and T-shirts for men, women and kids.

Dougal says his brief comes from his daughter who then “weaves her magic so the next time I see those drawings they are transformed into cute frocks and tops”.

She has a great eye for pattern and scale. “I enjoy seeing the finished product where a small crab on a skinny leg can grow into a giant monster crab on a rounder leg.”

A successful illustrator and author, Dougal has been fascinated with Australian culture for years, his nostalgic pencil sketching idiosyncratic scenes of country town lifestyles and coastal culture; seedy caravan parks, fishing hamlets and an architectural vernacular that “sadly has pretty well gone now”, he laments.

It was these scenes and Arabella’s own wholesome rural childhood that inspired the father-daughter label. In the spirit of Linda Jackson and Jenny Kee, Arabella wants to “show people the exciting things our country has to offer”, she says of her desire to “celebrate what’s in our back yards and in doing so, tap into the tourist market with a bit of style”.

Manufacturing is done in Australia where possible; a favoured maker is Cheryl, a woman Arabella’s nan found years ago while shopping at Spotlight in Ballarat. “She works from her small shed and has been making my clothes for years. It’s nice having quality control so we don’t overproduce.”

Lighthearted and a little bit kooky, the Dougal range is cultural cringe re-imagined as contemporary cool. Its Instagram (@wearedougal) is a feed of everything from Aussie idioms (Stoked! Strewth!) to summer vacations in Menorca, photography honouring Rennie Ellis, Dougal in the home studio, surf reports and Arabella’s idyllic beach house that has graced the pages of international magazines. Her own sartorial style is an inimitable mix of “70s vintage, preppy, **** and even a bit dorky” that’s equally at ease with the yuppies and the grommets.

“You can basically wear your pyjamas to school pick-ups and your wetsuit to the supermarket,” she says of the local surf town look. “But I still love high fashion and just bought a pink lace Gucci suit for my best friend’s wedding.”

An online purchase, it arrived via the dirt track leading to her secluded beach house. Fair dinkum.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

~
Far out past the breakers
a group of sea otters roll and play
in kelp beds.
nearby seafaring ducks and gulls
frantic for scrap
dive and squawk
splashing and throwing a sardine fit.
I stand upon the shore
wishing to participate
but the cold of the Oregon Pacific
keeps me safe and warm on the beach.
Still, I find myself imagining a streamlined body
riding currents and waves
a natural surfer never needing a leash or wetsuit.
The sun lowers and changes the patterns
shadows play between whitecaps
and I no longer can see shiny heads
pop through the surface
scan for friends or food
and duck again beneath the waves
where I can only imagine what is happening.  /

Me, Mum and Dad,
We’re going to see the sea.
Travelling in the car,
It’s hot and stuffy.

This is a long journey,
It’s been over an hour!
Oh, good gracious…
Here comes an April shower.

Dad parks the car,
Far away from the sand.
Mum shouts,
‘You’re too far in land!’

The engine is turned off,
‘Grab the bucket and *****’.
All loaded up,
Oops, we haven’t paid and displayed.

The stuff’s too heavy,
I’m going to drop it!
‘Not far to go!’ says Mum,
‘But there’s a hole in my pocket!’

Phew! We made it,
Feet in the sand.
‘Let’s dig a hole,
Dad? Give us a hand?’

Oh look, there’s a cave,
Let’s go and see.
Maybe there’s lions or gorillas…
Ah! It’s a bee!

‘Come and have a picnic’,
*** on the rug.
Took a bite out the sandwich,
Sipped some squash from the jug.

On hour later,
Time for the sea.
Wetsuit on,
Ooo look at me!


Get in the water,
Here comes the wave.
Body on board,
Up up and away!

Out I get,
I’m shivering and cold.
By the time Mum finds my towel,
I’m going to be old.

Home time now,
And I need a wee.
‘Dad, stop the car!’
‘Mum, find me a tree!’

What a good day,
Night night, sleep tight.
What’s hurting my knee?
Stupid insect bite.

Scuba Diving, 60ft down
No sound, but the pressure in my ears
No feeling but the clammy pallor of my skin underneath this wetsuit,
No feeling but the ocean, dizzy and swayed by currents
Color diluted to greys and browns,
60ft down.

Frogs stand , eyeing the ending oceans touches
             Fruit on shoulder - woman walks in front of tanning visitors from far off places
here to grace the island with beach novels and naps.
       Zip wetsuit , speedboat serenade attempts in vain to drown the roar of ocean and soft coo of dove
nor splash of body in pool or the glimpsed brief conversation in passing from no faced strangers

Low and conspicuous hang the cumulus cloud , or could be base of thunderstorms stiring brew.
          Return , Re - Turn to open ended , natural flow of water lines and bike bells toll , to late night samba and leave the propaganda , tender touches and daytime lunch , with night time conversational munch .

Frustration runs amidst them
Like blood in the water to a frenzy of poetic sharks
Poor Elliot, the wetsuit clad diver
Mistaken for a tasty seal
But the diver is hidden now
Missing an arm or two and some pride

But we hungry sharks are not abated
Something is missing, something is lost
Perhaps if we had a place to converse
This mystery would be solved
And we'd return your arm...
but only one, even we need collateral
*Evil Smirk

Finally earned my Santa Cruz creds
after decades
My first wetsuit
O'Niel in pretty purple and pink
across my ******* and I look like I'm
wearing rubber muscles like actors playing
action heroes but I feel like I am water proof
at last, have come of age finally
A member of the tribe of cold water human fish
as I swim on in the slanted winter light

the only thing I want
is to swim in the sea
she said ardently
rain shine
cool or cold
with a wetsuit though
she says apologetically
her skin so soft
wet hair in a woollen band
and her husband looks
at her proudly bringing her coat
We get restless - it's the village
you know, but we travel
and I need one trip on my own
she adds but looks at him
heartily he says
I like to be just at home

'i can breathe, i can breathe!'

i scream it into the air because there's space to scream it.
grass and trees and water as far as the eye can see,
even turbines spinning slowly,
i'm telling you now i have never felt like there was so much air before this moment.

i move upstream through the running water just to remind myself that this is real life and there are still difficulties
i laugh to myself though - it's never been this easy to bring myself back down to earth, because there's so ******* much of it

my vision is blurred from wet glasses. i'm delighted. the stress lines are melting from my face with the rain. i'm unashamed. i don't think i've ever been this free of pain. aaand hodor's howling from the top of the hill like a tiny wolf again.

side by side i walk through heather with my mother and i remember lantern-lit martinmas walks when i was four feet tall or thereabouts, and with the peppered scent of brambles and moulting leaves, i'm a child again and the leaves are mine to crunch and kick.

we pick wildflowers for the kitchen and blackberries for jam. we find ourselves going to extraordinary lengths to get the best ones, which of course, are always just out of reach. it becomes a quest for the unobtainables. but we come home with stained hands, faces aglow and two kilos.

bernie learns to fetch the ball and drop it and i almost cry because i love him so much. bernie investigates the deeper water of the river because daisy is swimming and i almost cry because i love him so much. bernie lays his damp head on my legs after a walk and falls straight to sleep and i almost cry because i love him so much.

the mist lies on top of the mountain like a protective blanket and i feel myself become one with the mud. i am the mud. the mud is me. i am a mud lady now. ever had muddy water flow over the top of your wellies and not feel remotely bothered? better than yoga.

never thought i'd ever be wishing for a wetsuit but here we are.

oh and, cold sunshine. gorgeous, crisp cold sunshine.

Mayhem in this spaceship
I get rid of all the fakeness
Mental fitness ...On circumcision
you ***** just ain't cut out for greatness
Take your chips and break
Rib cages
Like the gangsters
Out in Vegas.
So **** gay when I'm on pride week.
But dont play me for a ******
*** I'll burn my
Fingerprints with acid
To discretely feed the maggots...
**** it.
Blood on crazy flow.
Going savage ain't no bandage
Diagnosed as ****** phrenic
Just a term
For morbidly attractive...
I make ******* cream there pants
The ******* saturation madness...


Need a wetsuit to stay dry
With any female I collab with
Meno pausal women. Haunt my dreams
They gotta wanna have this
I'm so cold like snowman pole
They need jo to stop the flashes
I service shady acres
To keep my *** in
designer fabrics
Hand knitted by your nana's

sand crusted eyes and auburn tint hair
honeyeaters chirping outside the window
“you’re not the same bloke you used to be”
I feel a drenched wetsuit graze my face
“you just going to stare at me? get up!”
she opens all the living room windows as I stretch out upon the couch
the hardwood floors are lukewarm
I can smell the saltwater from here
I almost forgot what the horizon looked like
“grab your board, I want to show you a spot”
she said as she rushed out the front door
I could hear the pajero start from the kitchen
I scampered down the stairs and tossed my board on the upper racks
as we drove, we traced all the familiar roads
filled with the sweetest memories
the music faded in and out with small static in between- it felt almost feverish
we rolled to a stop on a questionable trail
she could see the confusion in my eyes but I knew I could trust her
we began the hike of what felt like forever
upon surfacing from the trees
I saw what I only thought I’d see in my dreams
so captivating- I stopped and stared
the sand felt like cloth and the water was flat
“all the legends start here”
she began running to the water and I trailed close behind
and for a split second we were 10 years old again
racing each other to the shore
she always won anyways-
we paddled far beyond the outside
the sun began to break the horizon
we sat and watched as it reflected on the water
I brushed my hand upon the surface
It was like touching a painting
I felt weightless
I closed my eyes
I could feel the warmth upon my skin

“I guess you’re a benny now”
“I guess I am”

there was a bit of silence that past-

“are you alright?”
“yeah, it’s just good to be home…”