25 The Big Wave To Michael Ridland Others are leaving as I pull in tonight Dressed for the chill, and under a dull sky Gray surf from winter storms is lifting high Far out from shore, then bouncing in loud and white, But a kid in trunks straightens to his full height By his old VW, powerful and — hell, I see He is one-legged. Now he vigorously Swings by on his crutches in the failing light. When I look next he has got off alone — Christ, to do what? Way down the beach, he’s thrown The crutches down and is hopping, his one thigh In the boiling white, toward a wave three times as high As he. Hesitates, though. The wave comes on And he hops back. In the sad, bad light I start my run. 51