F A R O U T {j.m.k.}

{I} four a.m.

4:07 am
waxing crescent
54° f
september 27th

With no aid of an alarm and the curtains masking the sun's rays that lethargically crept towards your window, four a.m. was the time your internal clock pronounced you revived from your coma of a slumber. You extended your arms above your head to stretch and parted your lips in a considerably elephantine yawn, allowing a halfhearted groan of protest tumble out along with it.

The reason for such an early rise?
The ocean, of course.

Ever since you could remember, you have been spending extensive lengths of your day atop a fiberglass vessel, slicing through the water as it's cold tendrils curled around your ankles and nipped at your toes.
For seventeen years surfing had been your drug of choice— aside from marijuana, but that didn't come until later.
You had received your very first board on your fifth birthday, and ever since then you and the ocean had become inseparable. Like a moth to a flame, cobalt to a magnet, you were irrevocably hooked.

Relentlessly every day you'd arise with the sun and check the weather to see if the conditions allowed for a satisfying session out in the water. If the waves met your standards, you'd scramble into a wetsuit and grab one of your most prized possessions. A plethora of boards littered your shed in the backyard of your humble sunny California home, longboards, shortboards, funboards— all collected over an extensive period of time. you're soon celebrating your twenty second trip around the Sun, twenty two years on the blue planet. Of course, you've already cleared room on your schedule to a days worth of shredding, followed by a lengthy online lurk for your next board as a celebration of yourself.
-•-
An almost twenty two year old living on the southern coast of California— beachfront too. How does one get so lucky? You had zero idea, except for the fact that your grandfather owns your home and allows you to pay an incredibly small monthly rent in order for you to focus on your aspirations. Oh, how you love him, he understands you more than anyone or anything and back in his prime he too was a gnarly surfer.
Your little shack on the beach provided the perfect sanctuary for you and your simple lifestyle. Surf, eat, sleep, repeat. You made your living mainly of sponsorships from big surf companies, and the earned money from competitions you dominated worldwide.
To your delight, your name grew more popular amongst the surfing world as you climbed the ranks, however, you were rarely noticed in public— occasionally meeting a few fans after a midday surf session— and you preferred to keep it that way.

-•-

After a few minutes of collecting your sleep-scattered thoughts, you stiffly climbed out of bed and down the ladder of your lofted room. A hurried yet clumsy beeline to the bathroom graced you with a new bruise on your knee from absolutely eating shit on your way to relieve yourself.
Walking out of the bathroom with your toothbrush wedged between your top and bottom molars, you peeked out of your kitchen window to see if the beach was densely populated, and to no one's surprise it wasn't at this hour.
After swishing the toothpaste and water around in your mouth, you spat in the sink and wiped away the remnants of the minty goo that stuck to the corners of your lips. A stroke of fur against your shin startled you, and you exclaimed audibly louder than anticipated. This remark was greeted with the a soft mew from the culprit, Denver, a large dark brown and white tom cat you found cowering underneath your porch one particularly rainy afternoon, three years ago. You made friends with him and he gladly took you in as his pet. As cliche as it sounds, you weren't sure who rescued whom. You named him after John Denver, an artist you used to listen to constantly with your grandfather growing up, and still do to this day. The cat padded over to his bowl and stared at you expectantly, to which you obliged and refilled the little ceramic dish.
Finally, you were pulling on your thick wetsuit up to your waist and shuffling out the back door to your board shed.

   Once you got down to the beach, you wasted no time as the sun ascended slowly over the horizon. You pulled your wetsuit up over your bikini and zipped it, securing the leash of your board around your ankle and sprinting into the cold sea.
Paddling out was never your favorite part, you always dreaded the anticipation for the sets to come in. After a few minutes, a sizable wave drew nearer and you quickly readied yourself, turning to face the shore yet keeping your eyes directed behind you. Once you felt yourself being lifted enough, you thrusted yourself upright and steadily placed your feet beneath you.

Carving through the glittering water, you effortlessly rode the wave with an enormous smile plastered on your face. This was your therapy, your medicine— just you and the waves.

  You continued your session until the sun was well above the horizon and your stomach finally growled in protest of the strenuous physical activity with no sustenance. You straddled your board, looking to the beach to see a singular figure dotting the shore.
This was not unusual, you've had your fair share of spectators over the course of your career. Pondering for a moment, you continued to stare as the tide lazily carried you in. You paddled until it was shallow enough for you to walk, your toes digging into the sand and the cooler morning breeze penetrating through your wetsuit, sending a chill down your spine.

The figure, now more clearly seen, turned out to be a man sitting peacefully in the sand with his legs criss-crossed and his elbows resting on his knees. The sun illuminated a mop of brunette curls atop his head, dancing and flowing around in the wind. Though your glasses remained on your bedside table, you could scarcely make out his features adorning his face. He was eyeing you, a small smile reaching his eyes. You were drawn to him instantaneously.

1062 words. thank you for reading, if you're seeing this. :)