Off-Season Lines
It’s 4 a.m. The sun hasn’t risen yet, only the faintest blue tones touch the horizon. The air is cold, the window fogged with humidity that blurs the world outside. Only the red flash of the lighthouse cuts through.
You need a coffee.
The next frame is ten-degree water flooding into your wetsuit. The noise, the cold, the rest of the world — gone. The sun climbs slowly behind the rocks. It’s just you and the waves.
Early light through the window, the air still cold inside the room.
The red flash of the lighthouse cuts through the fog.
Cold water fills the suit — everything else fades away.
The first paddle strokes into cold water. The horizon barely visible through the morning haze.
The sun climbs over the cliffs, soft and pale through the morning mist.
