Who Was It?

 In October of 2019, I fought against the waves of La Union

on a morning not meant for someone like me

Sheer lack of skill was undoubtedly clear, 

like the wide open sunroof above me

You should have seen how 

those waves threw their punches 

As if Marquez-Pacquiao,

raged on in the water

seven years later, 

It had all the speed, and force, and constancy 

To put it on primetime nature

The moving blue was a vengeful foe,

and it had its eyes locked-in 

on a pretender,

wearing a title belt around his ankle,

the leash to the life buoy that was his surfboard 

Who was it, but me?

Facedown on the sixth round,

Muscles flaring,

Tendrils of tendonitis shooting electricity

to points of paralyzing,

Barely able to catch a breath,

Barely able to catch a wave,

Just then another barrels down,

Tossing him overboard and all he hear's the sound

of a great washing machine

whooshing, whirling and splashing

throwing him in circles underneath the surface

force-feeding him foam of saltwater detergent

he hears his voice 

spoken in the depth of his own throat

A muffled huff

Try saying "I yield" with your lips closed 

and your cheeks puffed up

*mm.. mm..*

Who was it, but me?

Far into something I couldn't quite see

Deep in the focus of standing too close

Drowned in the water of the ocean I chose

Who was it but me? 

Falling prey because of naiveté

'Cause I survived, 

I realized

I'm never letting that shit happen to me

Again.

You don't survive without a steep crash. 

You don't get wise without first submerging.

Then you rise. 

Tug the leash. Beckon your board back. 

Get back on it. 

Move the hair away from your face and 

Start paddling.

Sit upright. 

See the next sets with clarity. 

Enjoy the view. 

Know when to call it quits.

The shore's right there. 

There's always another bitch--Beach. 

Beach please.

Who got back on it? 

Who was it, but me?