The Worst of It
I keep my gaze forward, horse blinders. I can’t look at her. I worry what will happen if I do.
The Pacific’s breezy breath feel less invasive this time of year, its frigid bite has lost its teeth— the gummy sun warms my cheeks as it burns through the spotty marine layer. The Ventura River has become stagnant after her roaring winter storms, mouth damned by sandbar, its contents pooled before it trickles out to sea. The Pelicans have made a home in this murky lagoon, looking majestic compared to the seagulls flying around, gawking, toddler like, ruffling their feathers, talking smack to their neighbors. A contrast to the wise ancestor, the Pelican, who sits still, beak raised to the sky, stoic, in thought. A runner zooms past me, their feet pitter pattering on the pavement, their breath heavy, their thoughts aimless. In the distance a dog chases a stick thrown into the depths of the dunes, kicking up sand, panting, returning back to its owner who looks out to the horizon, looking for answers that may never come. I smell the fishy, salty, oceanic brine, an au de perfume impossible to capture, saving for later. The pranayama of swell cups my eardrums, sounding faintly like a version of home.
I keep my gaze forward, horse blinders. I can’t look at her. I worry what will happen if I do.
It has been five months since I’ve been forced on land. Ariel from the Little Mermaid wishes to be like me, two legs, no gills-- and I desperately want to change places with her. She wants to be where the people are, I want to be where they aren’t. People have been dreadfully disappointing. Life was and has been terribly turbulent. To be frank, life has blown me like a dandelion. All stem, no bloom.
I have lost my gills so I walk by the water with staggering sea legs, my eyes burn and throat tightens at the sight of her. I’m desperate to dance with her. I’m desperate to be with her. I walk by the water for simple proximity, my longing feeling like another appendage. Dead weight. I walk by the water to feel my nose tickle with the dense and chilly Pacific salt. Sometimes I want to ask the man in front of his hunter green Subaru, the one with the white, zinc slathered face—I want to ask him as he pries off his wetsuit if I could just get a whiff of the wet neoprene. Like a mother who sniffs the tops of her newborns head, I know love by its scent. I want to take whiff so my body can register the memory of the place I love the most.
Yet my shoulder’s tendons are loose just like the faucet in my eyes that won’t shut off, and I can’t bear to hear and feel that popping sensation as it dislocates mid-paddle. A jarring and nasty snap quickly forcing me out of commission. I’ve been trigger-happy recovering, convincing my doctor I’m ready for my comeback, only to return the the next day, tail between my legs, dislocating for the second, the third time. I thought about the fourth but knew my body was wanting to heal. My heart was wanting to heal. I wanted both. I wanted my cake, I wanted to eat it too. The surfer girl equivalent of Veruca Salt. “But Daddy! I want to surf and not be injured noww!!” I couldn’t have them. The two at arms with each other. Body and heart. I chose my body this time. Heart will find a way—I think.
The day of the injury back in February, I had muttered to my mother “It feels like I have nothing. Yet I have the ocean. I don’t know what I’d do without my log and these frigid mornings.” I had placed my one strand of existence into the ocean, into surfing. It was my savior, my beacon, my guru. Life was kicking my ass and I kicked it back every time I’d dive into the icy Pacific. Who was I without the place I’d found the strength to kick it back? Who was I without it? Yet there’s something ironic with the fact that I had lost everything, including my savior to cope with the loss of everything. Losing everything means I had nothing left to lose. Can I call that freedom or is that too crass?
Surfers are, by necessity, particularly sensitive to changes in their environment. I had become vigilant to the changes in mine. But a storm must gather a perfect distance from land, and at just the right angle to bring swell to any given stretch of coast. Finding good waves requires knowing, as does finding ways to cope without them. Because at any particular moment, the wind and swell direction, the swell height and period, the movement of the tide, and the effect those factors can change on a dime. Sometimes we try to predict what the ocean will do, and even when you know all that, even when you check the forecast like its its own religion--it just doesn’t happen. You cannot predict the future with the ocean, as you can’t predict it with life. All the conditions may look like they will line up in your favor, and suddenly they don’t. Nothing is guaranteed--I had thought it impossible to be without it. I realize that’s my own story I tell myself about depending on something for my wellbeing that’s getting in the way. There’s something cathartic about catharsis without a crutch. It’s possible.
When the worst case scenario becomes your life, the worst of it will be what saves you.