Claudia. Surf Enthusiast. Hawaiian Soul. In love with John John Florence, poetry, and rock 'n roll.

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I’m in Hawaii again and this time on my own. I live in a one story house with only chai tea packets and macadamia nuts in the pantry. I live day to day with the sun and commute to the beach with my light blue bicycle. I leave my phone. Phones are useless when you’re trying to take in the beauty of life. To see the palm tree’s green for what they are. On the beach I see John John in all his surfing glory. Tan, bleach blond hair, an alien with the biggest eyes blue like the Hawaiian sea. Maybe it was my golden brown skin that day or my scent of vanilla jasmine, but he comes to me with his board under his arm. He asks me if I’m from around. If I like it here. If I am really as funny as I let on. I say no. His smile is contagious and white like the whip cream of milk shakes we get afterwards. I could see that he is certainly more than he lets on. Inside of him is like another Hawaii—with erupting volcanoes and blue skies and rolling sets that seem to break—purrrraaah—in the pace of my breaths when I’m sleeping. We waste the day away under the palm trees and take turns with our dreams.

“To win Pipe.”

“To get published.”

“To get high with you.”

“To learn how to really surf.”

“I can teach you.”

Somehow each other’s company is enough and the sun finally feels warmer on our skin. Bonfire nights, sandy faces, almost drowning, mid day hammock naps with my nose burying in the nape of his neck, skipping rocks, adventures into the green lush, endless photos of all things he finds beautiful. He’s constantly catching me candid sitting on the sand. Says I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—says that the Pacific sunrise doesn’t even compare. 

29 Sep — 3 notes
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