Lo! Upon the golden sands standeth a henge most rad, not of stone nor timber, but of surfboards plunged upright in a sacred circle. Their waxen forms glisten beneath the sun, and their fins doth hum a melody most groovy when the ocean breeze bloweth through. Some say it was built by wave-riding druids, others claim ‘twas merely the result of a beach party that went wildly astray.
None may enter without reverence, for the boards lean as if ready to ride the tides of destiny. Seagulls perch upon them as lifeguards of old, squawking wisdom most cryptic—though oft it soundeth like demands for thine snacks. Many a traveler hath tried to claim a board, only to find the sand most treacherous, sending them sprawling in a manner most unchill.
And yet, the henge endureth—a circle of endless stoke, where the waves doth whisper and the sun doth bless all who bask within. ‘Tis a place where time sloweth, worries vanish, and even the gnarliest of knights may learn to hang ten.
Credit | ChatGTP
