The Drop

I’ve always seen the act of surfing as a reflection of life itself— a metaphor, if you will.

You paddle out—
fighting through the break, ducking beneath the whitewater,
getting dragged, flipped, humbled.
But eventually, you make it out past the chaos.
To stillness.
To waiting.

You sit on your board.
Alone. Watching the horizon.
You wait for the next set to roll in.

And when the right one rises—
you turn.
You paddle like hell.
You commit.

Sometimes you miss.
Sometimes it breaks early and crushes you.
Sometimes you catch it—
and it carries you.

Because life is like the ocean—
eternally in motion.
There is no pause button.
No rewind.
No calm forever.

It existed before you were born.
It will exist after you die.

And it’s always changing.

Some days are calm and glassy—
light winds, soft breaks, a gentle rhythm.

Other days are violent and unruly—
massive, dark, full of rips and undertow.
Complex. Dangerous. Alive.

You don’t control it.
You just enter it.
Move with it.
Try not to drown in it.

You start with the small ones.
You get better.
You chase bigger swells.
But some waves…
some waves form farther out.
Faster.
Heavier.
Too far to reach by paddling alone.

That’s when someone brought the jet ski.

Tow-in surfing didn’t replace skill.
It didn’t eliminate risk.
It just changed the scale.

Suddenly, the impossible became possible.
Not easier—
just accessible.

That’s what AI is.

It’s not the wave.
Not the ocean.
Not the ride.

It’s the tow.

A tool to get you into deeper water—
faster, maybe farther than you could go alone.
But once you're in,
once you're standing,
once that drop comes…

You're alone.

AI doesn’t keep you upright.
It doesn’t feel the board flex beneath your feet.
It doesn’t taste salt when you fall.

And fall you will.
Because even with the assist—
the wave will still pummel you.

But if you make it—
if you catch it clean,
match its rhythm,
let go of control just enough to stay inside that rushing wall of force—

it could be the most beautiful ride of your life.

Everything aligns.
The roar.
The speed.
The silence.
The moment when you’re not fighting nature—
you are nature.

No audience.
No scorecard.
Just you,
the board,
and something ancient beneath your feet.

And yes—
maybe that wave could kill you.
Because the ocean doesn’t care how you got there.
It never did.

But that’s the price of the sublime.

Beauty isn’t safe.
Creation isn’t clean.
And the ride isn’t guaranteed.

You still have to stand up.
You still have to drop in.
You still have to ride.

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