a memory. Sitting on the beach, arms wrapped around my knees, my head resting on my arms, lost in thought. The relentless mesmerizing debris of broken wave’s slides up shore and then slithers back toward the horizon in a submissive retreat. Its a 4 oclock sun; most of the beach crowd is gone, only a few stragglers remain. I and my close buddies have been here since early morning. My body is warm and fatigued, my face on fire, as if popped from a toaster. The ocean surface is wind-blown; its breakers now shapeless and erratic. A few lone surfers refuse to give up. My mind drifts over the day, reflecting over the events. An occasional seagull calls from the sky as he looks below for one more score, suddenly falling he stops just in time to glide over the waters agitated face. Earlier in the day, when the waves had perfect shape, we body surfed on their massive shoulders as they lifted our scrawny frames high in the air then heaved us over their peaks, slamming us crashing five feet below with a thunderous roar, our bodies thrashing about, disappearing momentarily from sight, lost in exploding foam. Then like submerged corks, bubbles streaming from our nostrils, we would pop up gasp for air and yell for more. My mind recalled those rides with exhaustion and thrill; absolute fun. I was affected in other ways by the wave’s daunting raw power. There were certain sized breakers I could handle, but beyond were waves of enormous size and volume and they were a different story. Like a relentless battery of artillery these unstoppable gigantic walls of water assaulted the shoreline with deafening roar. Their thunderous impact shook the beach and sent reverberations of terror up my spine. I realized how small and insignificant I was; even safe on the shore I felt threatened. My nerves jumped with each watery explosion. As a teenager I was a personification of apprehensions, and these saltwater giants pounding the shore taunted me. Strangely they reminded me of my everyday fears of not fitting in, of ridicule, and rejection, of being less than a cool. Colossal waves mocked my empty bravado attempts to demonstrate I was as tough as everybody else. I wasnt. Waves the size of tall buildings terrified me. Some peers, fearless, would challenge everyone to join them in their quest to ride the tallest peaks of water. I would feign exhaustion, or make some silly remark how I wasnt as brave as they, laughing at myself, beating them to the punch. I had grown almost comfortable with my coward-role; getting cozy with a clown identity, being the lovable chicken my destiny. Waves hypnotized me, like a snake rising from a basket charmed by the turban-headed flautist, leaving me frozen in a swirl of thoughts and questions about who I was. My dread of physical fighting, my fear of being laughed at, mocked or scorned, or worst of all, ignored. To forestall such painful moments I spent considerable time crafting an image, the likable knee-knocking wave-rider, that would hide my abject fears, but it took very little assault to see that image crumble exposing my pitiable self. Herculean breakers would always be there, reminding me I wouldnt dare take on their challenge; that I was a coward. Their symbolism of indomitable crushing power was the god I worshiped and the demon I feared. If only I was free of fear, if only I could live unafraid, I could body surf those seafaring tormentors and not care what others thought of me. Mountainous waves represented what I would like to be as they roared back what I wasnt. Inside my head its quiet, all the crowds have gone, and the beach is all ours. The warm sun and deserted sands now prove calm and soothing. I was too tired to bother with the challenge of towering waves; besides, they had diminished to blown-out descendants of their former selves. It was just me and my best friends lying in the vestiges of the sun’s rays coveting the tan-look to the very end. Being tan was god-like, cool. It’s amazing how a shade or two of changed skin tone could transform the sense of self. A bronzed complexion advertised you spent extended time in the sun’s glory, one of God’s chosen. People had to guess whether you were a surfer, or some cavalier plutocrat basking in unbothered freedom. In either case, having a tan gave you confidence and another identity behind which to hide. Southern California summer was a time of high adventure and painful soulful reflection, and sometimes an opportunity to be someone else.
Posted on: Mon, 15 Dec 2014 05:42:27 +0000
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