Let me first ask – is it ok to wish for waves? The South Sound is too calm to mount. We see no breadloaf vans spilling surfboards in the street. No swells, no breaks. So I ask – is it ok to wish for waves? Here is a good place for a mother’s reminder- be happy with what you have. But how be happy? The lordly boy stands pearl-kneed in a sea that never much stirs. The hollow parts of his body commune with the deep but needs must wait…wait… Why so much sea if no waves come? No rhythm, no thrum. Though the tidal brine climbs his thighs it recedes without heat. He knows no moon – no salt-pound to sting his whalebone shins and by dusk he implodes with curses. That sacrilege calls to the altar the long canoes of the Salish – carved here with eagle, here with salmon – paddled up and tied to a fire hydrant until an overfished Indian can climb out and shout across the bike path the Lushootseed word is whulge Oracular, he divines a mute future in the swirling oil on his coffee, then scoffs as he dumps it through a drain painted like an orca’s mouth and asks why say whulge That name’s as full of sound as sound itself and yet the Puget makes none unless the storms come. We simply haven’t here that sort of sea. Ten thousand years ago a Duwamish mother with scrimshaw skin said whulge because it was the sound she heard when her hollow boy imploded, bone deep in the kelp-rot of another warless summer, wishing for waves.