(T Street Beach, San Clemente, California)

He’s standing solo on the beach,
holding his board vertically,
its fin buried in the sand,
trying to take a selfie,

and on my morning walk,
even from a distance, I can see
him struggling to get it all
in the frame.

There’s no one around to admire
his effort or take the photo, so I walk
over and offer. And the smile that
thanks me beams broad and bright.

“Really? Thank you,” says, it turns out,
Jesse, the surfer from Texas.

After I snap a good number of photos
on his phone, we stand and survey
the baby waves that don’t amount
to much for someone who’s
come so far hoping to surf them.

But, I point out, he’ll have them
to himself. No local guys hogging
the lineup.

“You can tell people that you surfed
in Southern California,” I say.
“And being on your board
in the ocean on a lovely day
is never a bad thing, right?”

Jesse grins, hefts his board under
an armpit and heads for the blue.

And later, when I return on my walk,
I see him not far offshore, tummy down
on his board, waiting, in the tradition
of those hoping to catch a wave.

He sits and throws an arm up
in the air, a wave of recognition,
if not a surfable one.

And, offering a prayer to the gods
for one clean crest that Jesse
might ride into shore,
I do the only thing I can—

I send him a wave back.