The Atlantic rolls in on large sausage curls to meet the sienna beach at Strandhill, a sandy beach west of Sligo town. We ended our day here in bright sunshine and sea breeze. There are many surf shops and surf schools here. Apparently there is a surfcam that can be logged on to where serious surfers can check the waves before heading out for the day. Strandhill is a lively vacation place for all nations of surfers, families with children and dogs, and the elder population as well who lick their soft ice cream cones in proper attire. I sat on the rocks to watch the waves dotted with novice surfers who, hugging their boards, waited on the swells for the moment to paddle out in front just enough to catch the crest and ride the wave forward rather than be pushed behind it. Timing must be everything, and like the sheep who graze on the edge of every mountain we've climbed so far, a certain boldness must be required as well. No hesitancy. This is the wave; go for it, or sit on your board bobbing like a seabird on holiday, waiting forever for the right moment. Decisions have to be made. Even if you end up diving into the foam on a failed attempt, there will be another wave, another chance. Still, hesitancy is hard to overcome, especially when your motivation is to please or if you are afraid.
In the near distance on the beach in front of me I watched a father with his very young daughter fill a sand bucket with wet sand, turn it over, tamp it down (the daughter's job), and remove the bucket, revealing a mound of standing sand—once, twice…four times—for the beginnings of a castle rampart. This father's day moment was quickly abandoned for a walk, hand in hand, down the sandy beach, the young girl collecting treasures and dropping them into the bucket her father now held in his free hand.
And that's it, really—the moments seized and dropped in the bucket, the waves ridden, the mountains climbed. No hesitancy.
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