Everytime I paddle out I'm intensely aware of how bloody lucky - and priveleged - to live here. I shouldn't have to say it, but given world events, it feels kinda wierd posting about ordinary things, like a long weekend with family, my returned mobility so I'm able to pop up on a few waves, an amazing middle eastern rice and snapper dish that I made with no sense of irony that that part of the world is suffering at the moment. So here's the disclaimer - when I'm posting about my life, I'm also thinking of, and sending metta to, people who aren't in such benign circumstances.

My son doesn't surf anymore - he lives in Melbourne, and wouldn't move down here because there's less work opportunity, and he loves the energy of the city, and being part of the music industry, which largely involves recording and mixing. When he is down, and there's surf, he paddles out with me.

And rips. He has that natural stance that suits longboarders, and the cruiser attitude to match. As I was saying to Hive account@consciouscat, it's very much about muscle memory - once you can surf, you don't really forget. Your muscles might ache the next day, of course.

I love paddling out with him. There's Dad's spirit between us. He's riding Dad's old board, that Dad bought when he first got cancer. and loved, but barely got chance to ride. Poor Dad wouldn't give me that board until he was a week off dying. He had that much hope.

We're in that strange place between safety and fear at the moment. Yesterday I stood at the shore with one of my Dad's mates, a foiler, and we talked about the war in the Middle East, the fuckery of Israel, the nuclear threat, Trump, religion, fuel prices (he flies his own plane, surf checking for us most days) and sharks (of the salt water kind), whilst the waves drizzled out to nothing.

Overwhelmingly, though, this place is sanctuary, memory, respite, relief.

There's a sense of family in this place that makes it all the more poignant, especially that we get to live out our lives here and not be torn apart by war, by tragedy greater than ordinary deaths. I saw my older uncle, Dad's brother, on his bodyboard the other day. He's turning 80 this month and still is tied to the sea, though he can't stand up and rip like he used to. His younger brother is in hospital at the moment. He's okay - just a pacemaker perhaps. He's my favourite uncle and substitute Dad, so I worry of course. I text him 'don't bloody well die' and he texts back 'I can't - I'm booked to go surfing in the Maldives'.

In the corner of this photo, there's the little one coming up. I worry he won't connect to the sea like we do, being in Melbourne. It makes me sad, given my childhood down here was so darn idyllic. But then there's Nippers (a Surf Life Saving program for kids) which starts when he hits 7 years old, and holidays. I'm hoping 'surfing with Grandma and Grandpa' becomes a genuine thing he wants to do, and a fond memory of his childhood that has him seek out this coast when he can.

For now, it's a place of safety and sanctuary, and I'll never stop being grateful for this life.

Oh, and about sending metta. It's a little like thoughts and prayers, a loving kindness meditation that cultivates good well and unconditional love for all beings - even difficult people. To repeat "May you be safe, happy, healthy, and live with ease" is a way of fostering compassion and reducing fear, and often focuses on the area of the heart.

Which is about all we can do sometimes.