I seem to be a wise old(er) women at times, lending an ear and some pithy advice to younger women in the beach carpark who for some reason offload to me.

Jas, I haven't seen for months. She's a new teacher and drives a silver van and a white board. She's tugging on her rubber as I struggle in with mine - I'm in abject pain and have only just survived an hour in the water, painfully, tearfully, sick of my nervous system betraying me and my muscles protesting. Two years ago I was a better surfer than Jas. Now, I can barely hobble.

She's in her head too today, she says, code for struggle town. What's up, I ask. She's been not-invited to a girl colleague camp out. She didn't want to go and is hurt to not be included at same time. She feels alone. Left out. On the outside. I get it. That's my story, my whole life. I get it, I say. There's nothing wrong with you. We just don't always fit.

I'm feeling alone too. I feel so alone that I don't make eye contact in the water lest I have to talk to anyone. How contrary. There's this protective forcefield that slides down like a metal shutter when one feels vulnerable. Not a fuck you, just a fuck this.

Perhaps we choose surfing so we don't have to play team sports. It's far safer. Less guessing where the ball will land and whether you'll fuck up the volley back.

I message her later, ignoring my own advice. We aren't friends, she's twenty years too young. I'm just an old mermaid in the carpark. I tell her she is beautiful and not to feel bad. We all just want to be loved and seen. To be missed. Included. Thought about.

I go home and Jamie is still out. It's nice to be alone. I wish someone would call by.