HUMBLING DANCE
IN THE OCEAN

That morning, the ocean was breathing heavy.
Alive. Restless.
Speaking in bigger sets than usual — the kind that don’t just roll in… they arrive.

I paddled out and found rhythm in the swell, like my body remembered something older than thought. The first wave came through with a clean, commanding face — and when I caught it, it was pure alignment. Board and water. Speed and silence. A ride so good it makes you forget the ocean isn’t yours to negotiate with.

For a moment, I felt untouchable.

And that’s the thing about the sea — it doesn’t punish you for confidence.
It simply waits for the moment you confuse confidence with control.

So when the next wave stood up, bigger again, I turned without hesitation. I paddled hard, feeling that familiar surge of here we go — already imagining the line, already tasting the ride. In my head, it was another clean drop. Another victory.

Then the ocean rewrote the story.

The takeoff went from promise to chaos in a heartbeat. The wave grabbed the rail, folded the plan, and pulled me under like a hand closing over a candle flame. Everything went dark — not poetic dark, but real dark. Salt and pressure. Noise turned muffled. Direction disappeared. Time became strange.

And down there, held under, I couldn’t see a thing.

That’s when it hit.

A sudden, brutal impact — the tail fin finding my hand beneath the surface. Pain flashed through me like lightning through wet rope. In the same instant, the sting turned into warmth… and warmth turned into panic as I realised I was bleeding hard. Not a cut you ignore. Not a little split. A deep, clean laceration — the kind that opens fast and speaks loud.

The ocean didn’t stop.
Waves kept breaking.
The sea kept moving.
And I was just a human inside it, trying to stay functional.

When I finally broke the surface, I sucked in air like I’d never owned it before. My hand was pouring. I pressed it into my wetsuit, trying to seal it with pressure and willpower, while the next wave came in and smashed over me again — pushing me off the board, dragging me backward, resetting the fight.

It’s a strange feeling — being hurt in the water.
Because you can’t pause.
You can’t sit down.
You can’t collect yourself.

You either keep moving… or you get moved.

So I kept moving.

One paddle at a time. One breath at a time. One decision at a time.
Get on the board. Stay on the board. Protect the hand. Watch the sets. Don’t drift. Don’t drown. Don’t bleed out in front of strangers like it’s nothing.

Behind me, a faint red ribbon drifted through the wash — not dramatic, just honest. A quiet signature the sea didn’t ask for, but accepted anyway.

And eventually, somehow, the sand arrived under my feet.

I stood there shaken. Bloodied. Silent.

Not angry. Not defeated.
Just… corrected.

Because that’s what the ocean does when you start believing your own momentum. It humbles you without emotion. It reminds you that the sea is not a backdrop — it’s a living force. It gives you the ride of your life, and in the very next breath, it reminds you who has the final say.

That morning, I left with a gash in my hand…
and a deeper respect in my chest.

The ocean gives freely — joy, rhythm, freedom.
But every now and then, it reaches up and taps you on the shoulder like an old teacher.

Not to hurt you.
To wake you up.

And that morning, it reminded me exactly who I’m supposed to be.