The sea is the universal metaphor. And I grew up in a place called Swansea. For its social shortcomings, mundane masculinity and chasms of class, it’s where I found adoration for the sea, and alliteration, apparently. Gazing down toward Swansea Bay from my poverty-stricken suburb of Townhill, I wondered where the sluicing salt could take me. Since then my affair with the sea has blossomed into a botanical reef of memories. Some bittersweet: witnessing Humpbacks breach off the coast of lackadaisical South African town, Hermanus. Some foundational: Diving on the Great Barrier Reef and realising that the surface of the sea is a gateway to the LSD-lit worlds and abundant wonders below. Some offering thrilling PTSD flashbacks: Paddling out of my depth at Pedang Pedang, Bali, in search of a long ride, and having Hokusai’s Great Wave dump on me. It bullied me into becoming a videogame ragdoll attempting to score a TEN in Olympic Gymnastics. I surfaced with an inhale virtuoso yogis would applaud, got my Little Mermaid on toward my board, gripped on tight, turned to see where the next wave… in the washing machine once more. That last memory is from Summer 2019. A homecoming to idyllic Indonesia after three years back in Wales snatching a Creative Writing degree so my return to beloved Australia doesn’t see me picking lemons: when life gives you lemons, be fucking grateful you didn’t have to pick them! Those bushes cut deep. That return to Indo was a needed break from shambolic Europe. A chance to get my PADI (nailed it!) and surf in boardshorts once more and not 5:3mm wetsuit, booties, hoodie and gloves shaped by praying hands. In the three weeks there (Bali & Lombok), I squeezed as many surfs out as I did wring the sea from my rashy. The penultimate day, desperate for calm waves that’d ease me into finally losing my Longboard virginity, I headed to Don Don. After powering past surf hotspot Tanjung Aan on a ‘road’ Mad Max wouldn’t drive down, I arrived in Gerupuk; an uncut gem of a fishing-village. Meeting one of the many lively locals with a piece of his right ear missing and whose name I’ve infuriatingly forgotten (ADHD and short-term memory aren’t too symbiotic), I asked how this slice of sea in Gerupuk, looking like some rustic fishing-boat version of a bloated supermarket carpark – can house surf? In shorthanded parlance, of course. “Boat take you there,” he replied with admirable succinctness. Unsheathing my board from its U-shaped holster bolted to the charismatic Flintstonian moped, I was ready. Then a boy of sixteen-ish arrived with a sincerely beautiful smile. He was the captain now. “I sleep two hours then you come back.” “Fucking A, man.” SPLOOSH! Joining a handful of people gliding these emerald cartoon crests in the middle of the world, there was the surf I’d longed for. My first wave felt like ordering an Uber and having a neon-furred centaurides rock up who avoids traffic, offers you smokes, and eventually becomes your Best Woman. An imperfect storm thousands of miles away provided the euphoria of nearly hanging-ten! What other ‘sport’ is so intrinsically linked with the natural world? What ‘hobby’ do you get to share with a pod of dolphins – Byron Bay, I love you. I grew up in a place with ‘sea’ in its namesake but always longed to venture beyond its murky horizon. Now, at 28.8 years-old, having journeyed a hearty amount of this world, soaked in more of its seas than Anne Bonny’s piss, I’ll never relent in frolicking with newly discovered oceans and the heterogeneous folks that score them. I’m a devout believer in Orwell’s mantra ‘Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print’ but I’ll continue to utilise the sea like my inexhaustible private poem. The pale blue in this pale blue dot will forever inspire. When I live as the great gonzo writer I dream of, cranking out stories on my beachside balcony, I’ll still be in awe of what keeps me youthful in mind and spirit. That great fountain of truth washing this world one wave at a time.