Black Gloves

We stood on the shore and gazed at the oil platforms in the distance; wondering if there were any poor souls trapped on them, pulling double overtime to feed their families. We talked geopolitics, surfing techniques, alcoholic beverage preferences, any and all things, as if we were experts in the subjects. It didn’t matter, there was no one around to correct our ramblings.

We walked along the coast, past some youngsters smoking cigarettes, clutching the jug of cheap wine that makes your lower jaw tingle when it goes down. There we noticed the behavior of the night waves and pointed at the large swells.

Pointing here, and pointing there, our hands were the conductors of the wave orchestra. Our hands, and our matching black gloves.

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