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My Love of Surfing

            My first time stepping foot in the Indian ocean was with the sun going down and the entire ocean acting as a mirror for the sun, lighting up the sky with an offset blue. After a 13-hour plane ride under my belt, I was emotionally and mentally drained from staring at the seat in front of me. However, I soon found myself in a crowded ocean where I couldn't paddle five feet from my spot out in the line up. No wave went by empty and the point break had close to a hundred surfers. It was never a bad thing to surf in a jam-packed spot because you know everyone is watching you to see what you can do on the wave. I've always dressed to impress and always had a few tricks up my sleeve when it was my time to shine. However, I never thought that my first session in a country I came to surf in might have been my last. Having only been in the water for 15 minutes I found myself wanting to get out of the water as if I hated the sport. I was thinking this was a bad trip, a waste of money, and made me lose my respect for surfing. I never thought that I would be walking down the main beach in Kuta, Indonesia with a bloody nose flowing down my mouth, spitting blood whenever I had a chance to breath. A bloody nose, not because of a fall, and I didn't hit the reef, instead I was punched in the face by a local. The one rule I learned was never cut off a local even on a small wave or even if he cut me off first. I made the mistake of taking another man's wave. In a local's eye there is no other solution other than a punch to the face, no "sorry" or "my bad" can help you. He made sure, I knew who I was surfing with and that I was to get out of the water. I had a lot of respect for the ocean and for the waves but I didn't realize I needed to have respect for another mans surf spot.
             I always try and think of what went through the local's head when he knew that punching me in the face was what he had to do.

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