Date: 2012-11-08 03:54 pm (UTC)
stardrive_pilot: (Aviators pensive)
Some time later in this trip, he'll head for Waimea and take on the big waves, because there's no rush in the water like that rush, and a rush is what he needs. His mind's still three million light years away, and he needs to escape. If he can't go back to Atlantis, at least he can carve up the waves and ride the roar of the ocean to the freedom he's lost. Just for a while.

There are plenty of people around who can't understand the need to fly, the need to surf, the need to feel the world rushing past, to see if disappear below or behind or fall behind a collapsing spray of water. It's always been what makes all his doubts and burdens vanish. Now, with a life a galaxy away that he can't reach out to and tied to the ground for who knows how long, he's going to ride those waves to his escape.

So many questions, so many things left unresolved. It's crazy to be here when there's a war to fight, a war that needs him. A place he needs to be like he's never needed to be anywhere before.

He's not sure how long he's been staring out over the ocean without seeing it, but when he catches it, he pulls a face. It's not going to do him good to dwell. Coming here was about not dwelling, and that's the attitude he takes to the water.

It's good.

It's been a long time since he had a chance to surf back in Pegasus. There's always something to do, never the time to do it in, and even those sweet breakers on the South coast of the Lantean mainland have to wait until there's a slice of time large enough for a break, and that's a rare occurrence. That beach is solitary, no sound but the waves breaking on the shore and an occasional distant animal. Here, the beach is full of laughter, children shouting, people talking, an occasional surfer shouting at someone for muscling in on a wave.

Once he's out where the waves are cresting, at last, nothing else matters. He paddles out, picks his wave, and catches it, riding the momentum as it builds, turning into and out of the tunnel it forms like he's playing hide and seek with the licking foam that whitens the water. It kicks up around him as he turns up and down the face of the wave, testing it, testing himself. He's a little rusty, in some ways, but there's no taking the beach out of him, not even after the years since he's lived somewhere he could do this regularly.

He's always gonna be a surfer, and there's always gonna be joy in it for him. No matter what.

He's grinning for the first time in too long, wind in his hair, as the wave dissolves into foam and he rides the remnant, crouching back down as the momentum dissipates.

He tosses his head, droplets flying from his hair, and his attention's caught by the same guy he'd been watching surf earlier. He can see him closer now, dark hair wet and sleeve tattoos circling his arms.

There's something about that guy. Is that what caught his eye in the first place? Is the guy reminding him of someone lost to time and distance? Is Earth so full of ghosts for him now that he's seeing the faces of people he knows everywhere?

Maybe. He's sure met a lot of guys with tall strong builds, a lot of them even with tattoos.

None of them guys he'd expect to find surfing in Hawaii, though, right?
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John Sheppard

October 2012

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