As I sit in the sand on the shore, basking in the Christmas Day sunshine, I watch tan-skinned men walk by. They carry lightweight, colorful surfboards. Each of them stops near me to look out at the water, putting their hand up to their brow to shield their eyes from the sunlight. They stare into the ocean.
Every once in a while, one of them will take their surfboard, and begin to jog towards the water. They get about knee-deep, and as they begin to run a little harder, they slide themselves on to the board and begin to paddle.
As a surfer, in order to get to the 'good' place to wait, you must paddle past the breaking waves. It's wintertime, and the waves are monstrous and wild this time of year.
I watch a boy stop to search the waves. He can't be more than 13 years old. He carries a white surfboard. The sun has kissed his hair enough for it to be a shade lighter than his own skin. My maternal instinct watches the waves and watches the boy, and I am instantly worried for his safety.