47 Minutes Late
I’m 47 minutes past my “post every day” deadline. I’m so tired my bones are achy but I’m writing now because if I don’t, I’ll just be letting myself down.
Why 47 minutes late? We met a group of friends, all connected through the surf camp we go to in Costa Rica, on a New Jersey beach, families in tow, for an evening surf. The surf turned into a cookout at one of their houses.
I’m late because we weren’t planning on dinner. Sometimes I listen to myself, even at the cost of letting myself down.
The spouses and kids we’ve all talked about, while killing time in the ocean between wave sets and seagull dodging, became real. The kids whose names I’ve known for a year, but whose faces I’ve only imagined, sat around a bonfire and performed a 30-minute impromptu knock-knock joke set.
Making friends can seem an awkward, and even political, endeavor as you get older. Especially if you spend almost all of your time at work, talking about work, or thinking about work. Especially if your anxiety has to be beaten down each time someone wonderful and new enters your little sphere of control. Not so with surfing.
The addicted have an understanding and acceptance that parallels the way two of the kids met today.
They first said hi after lunch. By dinner, they were upset that they had to ride to the house in separate cars.
Image via Flickr user jacbates.