I took my first surfing lessons when I was fourteen. I felt like a knobby newborn, with weak arms and a feeble sense of balance, trying to ride the surging foam. I sometimes needed an extra push when I couldn’t paddle hard enough to catch the young waves in my field. But I saw what I wanted, and my eyes were bright with the sun, so I kept myself burning and crashing until I would finally begin to understand.
You know what it feels like to fall in love the first time you see the ocean on a clear, moonlit night. You learn all you really need to know about first kisses when the navy darkness glimmers silver and secretly tells you.
I carried the white board into the lounge. I practiced my plan by penning out sketches and sketches. I picked the one with the most balanced composition and moved to the next event, the underpainting: one layer of burnt umber, one layer of acrylic hue swirling. I wiped my blue hands on my old, ripped jeans.