Plotting on a curve

This image, below, is the type of thing I usually do when I procrastinate; during my dissertation-writing time these Microsoft Paint files absolutely littered my computer desktop.  In this case, though, I've been trying to figure out how to map out a series of geometric shapes (composed according to two fixed perspective points), as if they were careering along a curve.  Problem is that here I've opted for a circle, and I think that somewhere along the curved line I got confused and the anchor-point on the shapes reversed... hopefully I'll produce something more consistent the next time.  Anyway the whole point of the exercise was to give me a means of taking the next step in a painting I've been working on since November, I'll have to see how that goes.

Last night I had a dream about surfing; I was taking a lesson, and as the instructor was speaking I knew, just knew (I think because of the force of the waves although it was perfectly easy to stand there in the water, calm and unmoving), that the wave I would catch would be at extremely high-speed, and I was anticipating - half-fearfully, half-excitedly, the rush that that would bring.  The sea was grey and the sand was that sort of golden-grey that you get at Irish beaches, and I was wearing a wetsuit but just as I was looking at the shore, knowing that I would soon be zooming towards it on my board, I realised that I wasn't wearing any surf booties and thought, "damn!", wondering how on earth I could have forgotten something so essential.

I've yet to surf properly, though I've definitely given it plenty of tries.  The first few occasions were on the Mayo coast, with the wind slamming into you as you even try to make it to the water's edge, pushing the board back in your face and it's an ordeal to get out to a point deep enough to start.  Those were during group lessons in a restricted area of sea, and I was extremely conscious of not crashing into anyone else and still managed to do it - thankfully no-one was hurt.  It was freezing, exhilirating and unsuccessful, and my only true fond memory is of sheltering in a trailer afterwards while waiting for a lift, drinking hot orange juice out of a flask.  I never thought I'd like hot orange juice but this was lovely.  Then there was an August in Biarritz, where the sea was absolutely crazy, terrifyingly forceful and crowded; there were times when I'd half-stand and start flying, but would force myself to wipe-out because of people milling about on the shoreline.  Then last year I was determined to learn properly; college was right on the Pacific coast, after all.  Students would cycle about campus with a board under one arm, and if you walked along the shore or on the cliffs by the pointy aloe-vera plants, you were bound to see groups or individuals out there with the dolphins.

I wanted to make sure I was a strong enough swimmer first though, so spent a few months perfecting that, and by the time I'd done that I had to wait for the weather to pick back up and for the sea to become fairly surfer-friendly again.  In my last several weeks there, provided I didn't have disruptive coursework, I'd attempt it once a week.  There was a specifically outdoorsy house very near the beach, with lots of kayaks and wetsuits and boards in the back yard, and you'd cycle there after class - past blocks of pretty bungalows with rose-bush gardens and beer pong tables and comfy couches on the lawns - and park your bike in their driveway and venture on in through the gate, grab a suit, stash your stuff under the table, and you were good to go.  Over time the board-carrying became easier; initially I found it (literally) a drag - not good for the board - but soon it became easy to just hold it under one arm like a pro.  The main tricky part was getting it down the flights of steps that brought you from the cliff to the beach, and once that was done it was grand really.  Booties were an absolute must though; the seabed was extremely stony and rocky - if you didn't have some sort of footwear you'd just step on something sharp or uneven or yuck-feeling and you don't want to be too distracted by concern for your toes.  The first few times my board had a problem with its fins - I think it should have had three but one was missing or something, so it behaved weirdly to begin with.  Also, the currents were still quite strong, even in May; no matter how many times I kept flipping over there was always this urge to try again, "just once more and I'll do it!", but it was often a struggle to get back out to that lift-off point.

Over the weeks I got more comfortable with being on the board, and the getting-centred part would take less and less thought, and it became easier to understand the timing; that the wave would help to push you up into standing position and so on.  And your skin got used to the surface of the board; my hands were less prone to blistering and it was nice to just dwell there, sniffing the salt on the nose and occasionally looking behind to see the swell flatten prematurely and wait for the next one.  Then afterwards you'd take the boards back up and shower off under a tap in the wall, and change quickly and hop back into your flip-flops and onto your bike and into the sunset evening, and your muscles would be exhausted but it felt so invigorating all the same.  I still maintain that if I had had one more hour (just one more hour, even slightly less than that!) of an extension to my final lesson (which was awesome and seemed, like a lot of that year, like it was made-up; a very handsome blond surfer with a typically monosyllabic American soap-opera name was the instructor and he made my progress his complete focus; could have been worse), I would have done it properly, but as it was I only managed to get half-way up and go.  Oh well, I think I'm going later this week (in colder, breezier climes) so hopefully I'll succeed... not sure though - I definitely find it quite difficult!