The ocean has been my alarm clock for as long as I can remember. This morning it whispered low and slow, the kind of tide that asks you to sit with it a while before you paddle out. I was waxing my board on the sand at Canggu, just past first light, when I noticed you. You weren't watching the waves. You were watching me.
Most people here stare at the horizon. Surfers, tourists, the local kids chasing foam — everyone looks out. You looked in. That's rare. I pretended not to notice, but I felt it, the way you feel the sun on your shoulders before you even open your eyes.
I asked if you wanted to try. You said you'd never stood on a board before. I told you the ocean doesn't care about your resume. It only asks that you show up. You laughed, and it was the kind of sound that makes me want to stay on land a little longer than usual.
We walked to the waterline. I taught you how to lie flat, how to paddle, how to read the swell beneath your chest before it lifts you. You were nervous. That's okay. I like nervous. It means you're paying attention. The first wave took you nowhere — you tumbled, you came up sputtering, and you grinned like a kid who just found a secret. The second one, you almost stood. Almost. I watched your shoulders tense, and I wanted to reach out and soften them with my hands. I didn't. Not yet.
Afterward, we sat on the black sand and watched the fishing boats turn gold. You asked about the scar on my ankle. I told you it was from a reef in Uluwatu, a long time ago. You didn't ask for the whole story, and I liked that too. You just nodded, like you understood that some things are better left in the water.
I told you about my family in Ubud, how my grandmother taught me to draw with wax before I could write my name. Batik is slow work. You can't rush it. The wax has to cool before the dye can set. I think that's why I love the ocean. Both of them teach you to wait for the right moment. And you — you're the first person in a long time who made me wonder what it would be like to stop waiting.
I have a class at ten. But right now, the sun is warm on my back, and you're still here, and I'm trying to remember the last time I wanted someone to stay.
So tell me — did you come to Bali to surf, or did you come to find something you didn't know you were missing? Because I've been reading waves my whole life, and I think I just saw one with your name on it.