Lids crack open. The blur of fresh consciousness slowly sharpens into an image. Baby blue mosquito net in the foreground, stained glass behind it. Based on the soft orange glow diffusing through the window, I guess it’s somewhere between 5:30 and 6:00 am. A quick check of my bare wrist reveals I forgot that my trusty Casio stopped functioning a week ago. But do you really need a watch when you’re living in a treehouse?

The intertwining songs of insects, amphibians, and birds offer yet another clue that night is shifting into day. Just white noise when first heard. But the more time I’ve spent listening, the more I’ve immersed myself in the rhythm, and seen the connections. Many animals have evolved to be habitual. They dance and sing their way through the day with a reliable cadence. Learning to tune into it can yield interesting insights.

Feet swing from beneath fabric and meet rough wooden floorboards. A satisfying creaking results, adding its own tune to the symphony of morning sounds. The lumbering gait of a person not quite yet awake proves good enough to get me to the bathroom. The vast network of nerves on the bottom of my feet send signals upward to tell me I’m now standing on cool tile. Soon after, I’m greeted by my friend Francisco sitting contentedly in the toilet.

I give him a warm smile, and remember the days when he used to bother me by constantly placing himself in the toilet. The days before Francisco and I formed something of a mutual respect for each other. At least I think he respects me back…despite my newfound closeness with nature, I have yet to find a great way to communicate directly with frogs.

As the morning freshening routine begins, I hear Manuel skittering across the roof tiles, his tiny paws like light machine gun fire rattling overhead. I assume his less-than-stealthy mission to capture all of the Enrique clan has begun. As much love as I have for the Enrique family, I notice a slight sense of satisfaction arising at the thought of Manuel’s tiny squirrel jaw making short work of their rhinoceros beetle armor. Nobody escapes the circle of life, and my treehouse could use a break from their persistent beetle labor to drill holes through its support beams.

I’ve found naming wild animals you see on a regular basis to be a fascinating practice. Not only is it highly entertaining, but it also offers an opportunity to see other living beings as equal and connected to your often separate-feeling human self. Just another celled organism reacting to its environment, forming its own little personality based on its past experiences.

Arnold the push-up loving iguana, Hugo the forever feisty crab, Terry the anything-but-fast tortoise, Hayley the drone-killing sea eagle, Rupert the soap-eating rat, Sally the Rupert-eating snake. All new friends offering their own energy and little bits of wisdom into the complex matrix of jungle beach life. A matrix which I no longer see myself as merely viewing from the outside. A matrix in which I’ve become an active participant.

Amazing how the mind can wander while the hand brushes the teeth…

Exiting the bathroom, bum meets cushion and legs settle into a familiar crossed pattern. Spine gently nudged upright, eyes softly closed. Mental gears shift, and the needle edges towards mindful awareness. Trying not to focus on any one thing, but observe it all. The mantra of “I am the watcher” plays a few times on repeat, then becomes unnecessary as the Department of Awareness takes over. Its sole job to passively monitor the rest of the mental departments in order to develop understanding.

But today is a hard day for the Department of Awareness. A loud crashing sound emanating from nearby is rippling air molecules all the way into my ear. Triggering the pattern recognition system in my brain. Creating an outburst of difficult to ignore thoughts.

Wow, those waves sound pretty big. Hmmm, but it’s always hard to tell from inside the treehouse. Sometimes the waves sound loud but it’s just the smaller waves breaking closer to shore…wait, I’m supposed to be meditating right now…but it’s okay to have thoughts while meditating, I just need to observe them. But hold on, is this really the time to be meditating? That last set of waves was definitely a big one, I should go check it out. I think I remember the tide was supposed to be ideal for surfing around sunrise this morning.

Sneaking a glance at the clock, I see 9 minutes have elapsed. Close enough, I’ll meditate more later when I’m not so damn eager to see the ocean. Cutting my meditation 1 minute short, palms are placed together for a quick offering of gratitude to the universe for the unendingly interesting experiences it provides. A few seconds later, I’m standing outside in sand still cool from overnight low temps.

Staring out into the shifting expanse of ocean, I’m reminded that living beings aren’t the only useful signal providers in nature. If viewed through the right lens, water is capable of telling an unlimited number of stories. 

The story being told by the ocean this morning is a particularly tantalizing one. Even with the sun still slouched beneath the horizon, early morning light has begun to arc across the muted purple sky and reflect over the surface of the water. What it reveals sends an excited quiver throughout my body.

Large patches of green glass stretch as far as the eye can see, punctuated by dark lines slowly moving towards the shore at set intervals. Closing my eyes for a moment to block out visual stimuli, I feel into the outer layer of skin encompassing my body and confirm what the smooth texture of the water was already implying: almost no wind present. Nothing to stop the waves from being perfect.

Opening my eyes once again, I catch sight of a dark line as it passes over the sandbar I know lurks beneath, and rears up menacingly. Eventually it can stretch no further, and topples over itself in a cascade of bright white gurgling foam.

A favorite activity of mine is to view the ocean as a reminder of the universal law of impermanence. It never looks the same on any given day, hour, or even minute, and that’s because it never is. An infinite number of factors are constantly acting upon it to change its physical appearance on a moment to moment basis. Nothing in the universe (myself included) is spared from this constancy of change. But I often forget this due to my human tendency to cling to people, places, and things; thinking they will be there forever. Which is why I like to use the highly dynamic nature of the ocean to snap me back to the reality of impermanence.

On this particular morning, I realize the excellent surfing conditions I’m staring at will disappear at some point just like everything else, so I should probably stop philosophizing and get into the water.

Board shorts still wet from yesterday slip on. Wax flies across the surface of the board. Leash gingerly wraps around fins. Rail tucks securely into armpit. And I’m off.

Trotting across the shell-strewn sands and noticing. The subtle changes of the sandbanks since yesterday indicating overnight wind activity. The expansion of the puddle under the lighthouse announcing the change of sea level due to rising swell. The lack of clouds in the sky predicting late morning onshore winds as the sun will mercilessly heat the land, pulling the air towards it. Signs easily missed, but essential to an eager surfer.

Arriving where sand meets water, I take a moment to marvel at all of Hugo’s brethren engaged in their sunrise feeding ritual. Scampering about on six legs with dual claws extended, I watch as they play a dangerous game. With each wave that reaches the end of its life on the shore, the small crabs wait patiently until the water begins to recede, then dart to the newly wet patch of sand and harvest it for microorganisms. It occurs to me that despite my years of experience reading ocean waves with the intention of riding them, my skills are far inferior to these little creatures. For them, being able to predict the future of an oncoming wave is a matter of life, death, and a healthy breakfast.

Board meets ocean surface with a satisfying slap. Arms rotate in circular motions at the shoulder joint, propelling me towards the sounds and sights of rumbling water. A school of mackerel are chased straight into me by an unseen larger fish, and they desperately fling themselves out of the water. Slimy scales slide all over my board and body, causing a brief moment of shock followed by curious delight.

Another chain of realizations is triggered. Fish tend to feed more vigorously on each other when the moon is close to full. In turn, birds tend to feed more vigorously on the fish. Glancing up, I see far more gulls than usual zig zagging through the crisp morning air. Full moon also means greater variance between tides, which leads to stronger tidal currents. In that case I’ll need to be careful where I choose to paddle out and line up for the wave. Strong currents plus sharp rocks aren’t the safest combination.

Just as I start to slip back into philosophical mode with a thought about the endlessly fascinating interconnectedness of the world, I’m dragged forcefully back into the present. A particularly meaty wave towers up in front of me, taking a position between myself and the newly risen sun. Beams of light penetrate through the back, igniting a brilliantly bright green wall.

Then I see it. Or should I say, I see him. At least I think he’s a him. I’m also not very well versed in jellyfish gender identification. Perched high in the illuminated wave is my friend JB, a round blob of gelatine the size of my upper torso with drifting tentacles longer than the length of my body. During this moon cycle, he’s been hanging out right in the area where I like to paddle out, so I’m glad to catch a glimpse of his position in order to avoid close contact. Despite having a good relationship with him and his jellyfish kin, some friends need to be kept at a distance.

For the following hours, I sink into a rhythm with the ocean. Senses on full alert. Making use of every clue on offer as to where and when the next wave will strike. With each drop down a glassy face, my mind shuts off completely, and instinct takes over. Thinking is far too slow when you’re slicing across a dynamic wall of water. Instead you must feel.