Sensible eyes could read it from the shore.
Swells topped out at eighth to ten. Cross currents swung unnaturally across the sand at the waterline after each break. The cautious stood, feet buried holding boards and tugging at the edges of their wetsuits.
Braver ones bounced atop the curls, waiting.
This late in the season the guard chairs had been removed; the community policed itself. An older surfer know for his prudence and instinct took constant head counts. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “I count nine.”
He whistled; waved.
Down shore atop the jetty, a short board with battered fins.
*** *** *** ***
This flash fiction is in response to the weekly challenge at Carrot Ranch Literary Community.
Rip Tide was the prompt.