A Morning at Kabalana

The break wakes before the village does. By half past five the sky over the point is the colour of the inside of a shell, and the first longboards are already walking the sand below the garden.

Coffee comes down to the beach in enamel cups. Nobody says much. The tide does the talking here, and at Kabalana it speaks in long, patient lines that peel from the point like they have somewhere gentle to be.

Paddle out before breakfast, and the day owes you nothing after.

By eight the session is over and the table is set — fruit, eggs, strong Sri Lankan coffee over the water. The horizon holds its line. So do we: slowly, and in no particular hurry.