Standing with salty toes smelling of fish
on the grandstands of Nazare, cliffs so big
cresting giants double the height—
rising great walls of freezing winter water
jackets on so tight, skins the color of rubber
suctioned, hands so white gripping tows
a mammoth wave rising like the froth of a pub beer

it crests and slams—

shots like explosions
series after series
engulfing the sea in one leaping swallow
generations of girls dreaming as big
as what you can see every bit as big and barely
conscious.

Still breathing,
somehow.
Still floating,
somehow,
despite the froth that swishes the world white.

Snapped.
Herniated.
Scolded.
Warned.
Publicly criticized.

Dreaming as big as what she can see
every bit as big and generations
of girls watching from the cliffs of Nazare
over which tower giant folds of water.

Series of explosions rapping the air
like white knuckles against a chalkboard
what a grand stand! What a speed!
Speed like grains of sand tipped upside down
from salt shaker home, dusting the floor at
500x speed.

Crowning.
Riding.
Surfing.
Surviving.

More brave than usual.

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