I cannot explain where they lie, break, or pack for I have been sworn to a secret compact. To get to them we took the regular ways once we to the Goddess had given fair praise, once we had awakened and strapped on our boards, once we'd made sure all our bikes pointed forwards. They'll not remain secret much longer, I fear, perhaps a few months or maybe just a year, until they'll be crowded with Russian beginners who don't read the rules and are thus surfing's sinners. The breaks are near cliff-sides, sometimes they're near reefs where creeping fish linger with long, spiny teeth, where poisonous starfish and their polyps float, where wee male seahorses their progeny tote. Now come with us on this here new adventure to witness the ocean's ceaseless overture, that's written in current, peak, swell, chop, and wave, that dictates how we think, dream, talk, and behave. I will not say more lest I spill all the beans and ruin what's left (if you know what I mean), and give up the very last Bali secret, a spot that tourism has not ruined yet.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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I bicycle, write, surf, and strive.