December walks towards the horizon until it drowns. Staying in the surf makes more sense. Continents of foam arise arrange behind a wave to be erased by the next. They stretch into clouds, swept away by unravelling wave. Deeper out, surfers split the difference between air and sand, suited for their element. Bathers feel cold heebie-jeebies till the full weight hits. Immersed, they ply the even up-and-down where moon has gone before. They face-plant the next lift of white water, or boogie across scud of thin flood, or jump, or dump. Hours, please, continue where there’s no thought of tomorrow.