Roarke

From the shore,
it looked like
he had
negotiated the swell,
thrown down his last penny,
for the sweetness
of a good wave.

The storm had brewed for a week.
For seven days,
the sky lumbered,
and
Roarke waited.

Finally,
at the light at the
dawn on the eighth day,
we pulled up chairs and
watched him from the shore.
Only our hands were clasped,
shaking at every crash.

But Roarke?
Roarke only ever knew how to
stride, swim, talk, walk-
live-
with a steady hand.

At six,
he walked with no shoes.
At ten,
he used sticks for swords,
his back always bare against
the sun.

Now twenty,
invincibility is a clause
at the end of every short contract
the boy signs and dots.

But today, the swells battle him,
throw him from his board,
suck him underwater.
And still, he goes toward
every wave.

During a break,
he pauses,
looks back at the shore,
and smiles.

We wave and watch
as he paddles out again.
Out and out and out,
until he is hidden,
camouflaged by sea
and suit.

A flash of white erupts
from where he last sat.
It's his hand,
shot in the air to reassure us.
It's just a glance,
until he bellies up on his board again,
his arms flying like oars.

There he was,
and there he always had been:

Paddling, paddling, paddling,
further, further, further,
just a little bit further,
into a place
where we could no longer
recognize
him.