The Art Of Surfing Poem by Gert Strydom

I have not mastered the art
of riding on rolling waves
fifteen feet high,
speeding by like a bird
in the overcast sky,
slicing the roaring thundering rush
of water filled with immense power
piping through swirling churning cavities
on a storm tossed sea
and almost drowned in the trying
with the board passing me
like a piece of driftwood,
with water enveloping me,
knocking the breath of life from me
and I sank like a piece of lead
and was tossed out
like spit on the beach.