Golden hour

Directly after catching a solid right-break on a small wave that he rides playfully in such a way that is pleasing to watch, the man plops back on his board and paddles back out beyond the break. There, in the golden hour preempting the kiss of the sun to the ocean, he gazes towards the horizon, past the building waves he so awaits and takes a moment just to look. He see's a sky and a sea crafted of gold, and then he turns back and looks to the shore to see that same radiance emanating onto the wilds of the far off lands in which he paddled out from on his board. He then acts, strangely and lays down on his board, belly down as if the tablet were a soft mattress. He keeps his gaze fixated on the glowing shore. Partly mesmerized and fully appreciative, the man thinks to himself, "Damn, this is something. Did I find this -- or did this find me?" And, happy with not knowing, he shuts his eyes and rests among the golden swell.

Playa Pradomar