Photo by Scotty Johnson
While I was on holidays recently I got to surf at my favourite time of day – twilight – when the sea and the sky slow dance as the lights onshore blink into life. I was so moved by the experience when a dear friend and I paddled out together at Belongil beach at Byron Bay that I wrote a poem called “the dance”.
There is no escape from romance at sunset. Blushing pinks whisper into blues that stroke the top of the sky then tumble into Wollumbin's shield of mountainous ridges circling the Bay. The sun exhales in flames. Last night the lighthouse glowed but tonight it dozes; we almost lose it as dusk wraps it in her quiet pastels. Together the sky and the sea slow dance. Nocturnal chiffons and lace trace liquid pathways and patterns across the water until reflections spin like a living Van Gough lighting up the night. And we, in shiny black seal skins, paddle our longboards out late, our eyes adjusting to dim lights and our ears to the hush of sighing foam, our backs flex as we glide beyond the shorebreak to the dark place where all is still. It is his silhouette that stuns me. Not a single feature visible, he is pressed up against the world like a mythical hero returning home from war. And he is bone weary. And he is crushed. And he is lost. And he is found as the sky and the sea dance their heartbreakingly beautiful dance.