Where I grew up the ocean waves were too far away to see and the corn fields waved gently, smoothly, like gold. I didn't think about the fields of waving grain much until I moved into an urban area and never saw them anymore. Sometimes, on my way home from work when the sky is blue and the clouds are yellowed from the sunshine, I detour myself through a pocket of farms to see the corn.
It reminds me of what I've come from. The night we dangled our feet off the overpass and watched the trucks plow by underneath. The barn at her house that scared the bejeebers out of me but never ceases to be the barn I see in fiction's stories and tales. The music that we blared as we ripped out of the gravel parking lots on our way to make a series of bad decisions of varying degrees.
Waves come and go. Life is filled with the waves that make us hold onto our seat and pray the boat ride will end quickly. Its filled with the kinds of waves that make us want to go back and do it again like a child who just discovered body surfing. Try as we might, capturing the wave in film, in our memories, in words falls short of possibility.
Sometimes the waves die down and we are left standing there. Wondering. What do I do when I am not watching, surfing, surviving the waves?