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I bet that just like me, in weather just like this, he stood at this spot, the edge of an entire continent, the point where the land ends and there’s nothing left, nowhere to go that’s solid. I wonder if he, too, imagined how these waves started far away. Something big and dangerous – an earthquake or a hurricane – set them in motion, and they traveled through space and time, gathering strength and shape, and eventually meeting their end here.
A crash on the rocks below my feet.
Ahead of me, I spot the town’s famous surfer statue that stands on a pedestal on a spit of land that protrudes above the water. The statue’s a little corny – a thick-haired stereotypical surfer dude, his chest broad and expansive as he grips his board behind his back, his chiseled profile contemplating the ocean for the next wave to catch…Up close, you see a tension in the surfer’s jaw, and this makes me certain that he’s more than a fantasy stereotype…Who was this Prince of the Waves?
A deserted boardwalk on a dreary, gray day like this can be kind of eerie. Most people think it’s too lonely to hang out with games and rides that sit there doing nothing… Overhead, the bright red and blue cars of the gondola sit still in the sky. I pass the motionless Pirate Ship ride and then the mechanical gypsy fortune-teller machine, whose eyes seem to follow me…Is the gypsy looking at me with pity or with a laughing, mocking expression? Does she know something that I don’t?