Crowding down the steep cliff stairs
black-suited surfers, their long boards
scenting brine, one hundred bodies
speckle the gray-blue plain below
where long slow rollers offer nothing
so why the crush mid-afternoon
at November’s end? A quarter mile on
the explanation — cresting frigates of spume
another hundred experts carve runes
next to aspirant juniors upending.
You’d never guess how bitter the cold
this non-pacific break of known water.
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