The Wave
©2013 by LeeZard
The real me lives by the sea,
With flying hair and sun kissed
brow,
I’d give anything to be there now.
A wave can propel you forward, pass
you by or capture you in its turbulence. This is true in life and in the ocean.
Sometimes you make the choice and sometimes it’s the wave. That’s deep, very
deep (small wave joke). In this particular instance, I made the choice, or did
I?
I was 14-years old but I remember
it as if it happened last summer; it was that
dramatic. Fourteen is a very strange time in a young man’s life. The hormones
are just beginning to flow but the mind and the body are not quite ready.
There’s hair down THERE but you don’t really know yet what to do with the hair
or your pecker. But, you know things are changing.
For me, it was the summer of 1961
and I was about to enter high school. I was aware of the blooming young girls
in my eighth grade class; oh yes, there were stirrings. I even asked a few out
for a date and some close-mouthed making out with mixed success. That summer
would push me further into teenage-hood but in a manner I could’ve never
predicted.
For years my family rented a
summer cabana at Capri, one in the string of private beach clubs in Atlantic
Beach on Long Island’s South Shore. This particular summer my early teen
stirrings were stirring. All of a sudden I was taking more notice of girls (and
women!!) in their bathing suits – one
in particular. Ah, young lust.
in particular. Ah, young lust.
She appeared to be my age, close
enough for me to fantasize that I had a shot – even though I wasn’t sure what
kind of shot I wanted. She had ebony hair that hung in loose curls below her
shoulders. Her eyes were deep and dark; even from a distance they beckoned for
me to dive in. This was before the real bikini days but she wore a red
two-piece bathing suit and her young body was just beginning to flourish. I was
mesmerized every time I saw her and every time I saw her I was determined to go
up and talk to her and every time I froze.
It tore me up. I didn’t have much
manhood yet but I was questioning what little there was. I had little or no
confidence about girls and every time I failed to approach her I sank a little
deeper into self-doubt. Luckily I had some distractions, especially The Ocean.
I taught myself to body surf the
waves; I loved it! I’d jump the waves and punch at them with all my
scrawny-body strength and when The Ocean was calm I’d swim out as far as I
dared, roll over on my back and stare at the sky. The Ocean was my friend and
my playground.
One bright, hot, muggy day early
in the summer, as I was waiting for the right wave to ride, I noticed two guys
about my age, further from the shore and each on an inflatable raft about four
feet long. I stood and watched as they both effortlessly caught the next wave
and rode it until they hit the packed down wet beach sand. I was entranced.
Needless to say, it’s easier to
overcome shyness regarding other guys and I wanted to know about those rafts. I
swam out to where they were stationed and floated nearby to watch them catch a
few more waves. Gathering up my nerve I finally approached them. “Hey guys.
Cool rafts.”
They were obviously brothers, in
fact they could’ve been twins except one definitely looked a year or more
older. The younger brother replied first. “Hi.” He said with a friendly smile,
“I’m Anthony and that’s my brother Dean.” Dean remained silent, concentrating
on his position for the next wave. Anthony, however, was more than happy to sit
on his raft with his feet dangling over the side and gab.
It was the usual stuff, where do
you go to school, where do you live, etc. Anthony was my age while Dean was
about 18-months older. They lived not too far from the beach and about
25-minutes from my house.
I began my campaign to get a raft
on the drive home that afternoon. It wasn’t easy; we weren’t poor but we
weren’t what you’d call well off and Dad watched every dollar. I was
relentless, though and they eventually gave in and bought me a raft. It wasn’t
like the guys’ rafts, though; we didn’t see any like that in the toy store we
visited.
My raft was the traditional
longer, rubber plastic thing with the pillow, designed more for lounging
languidly than surfing. But, it was a raft and the next day I was out there
with my new pal(s). Dean remained mum.
Anthony and I gabbed back and
forth, lying on our bellies, waiting for the first good wave. And, suddenly,
there it was! The three of us started paddling like mad with our arms, trying
to catch that critical front edge of the roller just as it started to roll. We
were all neck and neck, perfectly positioned but while Dean and Anthony got the
ride, the wave slipped harmlessly under my raft. No problem, there’s always the
next wave but it was not to be that day. Wave after waved passed me by like
empty busses headed for the garage.
I don’t know what made me think
of it but after this afternoon of surfing frustration I more closely examined
the other two rafts. What I noticed was that the canvas surfaces of theirs had
texture to them while mine was a slippery stretch of polyvinyl. That had to be the difference; I wasn’t
getting any traction.
“Hey you guys, where did you get
those rafts?” I asked.
“Army/Navy store.” It was the
first time Dean had spoken to me. And so, the new campaign began. It was a much
more difficult task. Upon finding and visiting an Army/Navy store (not very
common in Southeast Queens it turned out), I/we discovered the raft I coveted
was about five times the price of my “toy.” Coming this close to my goal and
leaving empty-handed was not an option. I begged. I pleaded. I cajoled. I made
promises I knew I could never keep but I walked out of there with my raft. Of
course, it rained for the next four or five days and the new raft (and I) remained,
deflated, in its box.
On the sixth day, god rested –
short workweek – and the sun shone bright with warm promise when I awoke. I was
dressed and down for breakfast in a flash. “C’mon mom, let’s get goin.’ We’re
going to the beach, right?’
With a straight face and a stern
look, she replied, “Well, no, I have some shopping to do.” I was crushed.
“GOTCHA!” she almost shouted.
Gawd, that was so unlike my mom I didn’t know whether to laugh or say something
stupid. I opted for rare silence and ran to get my raft. Two hours later my
little 14-year old lungs were nearly in pain as I sat on the beach huffing and
puffing through the small air valve. I have no idea how long it took for the
raft to fill but it seemed like hours. The surf was perfect and the two
brothers were riding ceaselessly. Finally, FINALLY, I was ready to roll.
The inflated canvas raft –
rubberized on the inside – was far heavier than my little plastic thing and it
was difficult to look cool walking down to the water while struggling to keep
from dropping it. Fuck cool; I dropped it in the sand and dragged it by the
short towrope tied to the front end.
What can I say? That first wave
was amazing! It began far from the shore, rising to about four or five feet
before beginning its forward roll. I caught it perfectly along with Anthony and
Dean. Before I knew it I was shrieking with joy at the top of my lungs and the
two brothers joined in just for the hell of it. It was the beginning of a great
summer of teen bonding and endless hours riding the waves.
Dean apparently decided I was
cool-worthy and allowed me into his 18-month older world. This meant parties,
with GIRLS, at their house almost every week. Alas, my dark-haired beauty never
appeared but she was almost forgotten; so deep was my boundless joy and
pleasure in The Ocean. Oh, I still saw her around the beach club and, yes,
there were stirrings still stirring in my youthful loins but the ache of
unspoken rejection was gone. One day blended into the other with an endless
line of perfect waves until that one fateful day toward the end, the day I
confronted The Wave.
It was rough surf that day. The
waves were rolling in much faster and much closer to each other than usual.
Still, we picked the best ones and rode ‘em the way we always did. By now, we
were all “experts” and had experienced this kind of action before. As the day
wore on, though, things changed, first subtly and then more dramatically. The
waves were growing in size and intensity, the rides getting wilder and bumpier
– so much the better, we figured.
Then, toward late afternoon and as
high tide approached, all the lifeguards appeared at water’s edge with
bullhorns. “Please exit the water,”
they boomed. “The ocean is closed due to
dangerous surf conditions. We are experiencing waves ten feet high and larger.
Please exit the water immediately.”
“Hah,” quipped Dean, “didn’t know
ya could close an ocean.”
Maybe we were having so much fun,
maybe we were so focused that we hadn’t noticed the change but now, the waves
were a bit further apart and they were bigger, much bigger. We were far enough
out, in fact, further than we thought, so the waves were breaking after they
passed us. But the swells under our rafts were getting higher and we could feel
their strengthening power – definitely time to head for shore.
We began paddling in and, as we
reached the point where the waves were breaking Anthony and Dean hopped off
their rafts and tried to jump the waves while tossing the rafts over the top.
They had little success; both lost their rafts to a monster wave that tossed
them around like rubber ducks in a bathtub before depositing them on the beach.
The two brothers struggled toward the beach, diving under the waves in an
attempt to get under their most powerful thrusts.
For some reason I hadn’t paddled
in as quickly as the guys and I paused in that nether world where some waves
were breaking while others were still building. Then, looking over my shoulder
I saw it – The Wave. I could see the nascent swell building much further out
than any other. I stopped paddling and watched, transfixed with a mix of awe
and fascination, as it grew taller and taller, picking up speed as it rumbled
forward.
In retrospect, I have no idea
what I was thinking. In fact, there was no thinking; I instinctively started
paddling, trying to time my forward progress with The Wave’s peak. Before I
knew it, I had traction and I was hurtling forward – and upward – with
astonishing speed. No turning back now, shit, no turning back now! It took all
of my strength but I still had the presence of mind to keep the nose of my raft
out of the water, minimizing the chance of rolling under the torrential power
of The Wave.
Before I knew it I was in The
Wave’s curl and flying straight down, perpendicular to the ocean’s surface. There
was no sloping down the front of The Wave; I was headed straight to hell.
Luckily, I still had that traction.
If there was ever a time in my
life when everything slowed down, it was those fleeting few seconds. Halfway
down this surging, frothing monster I knew I was going to make it; I just knew.
Finally, and with my arms aching from the effort, The Wave and I bounced
violently several times and settled atop the white-capped ocean’s surface,
speeding toward shore. I couldn’t wait to hook up with my cheering buddies and
the throngs who were certainly awaiting my heroic landing.
When my eyes finally cleared away
their salty sting and I rolled off my raft in the now shallow wave’s rippling end,
there were no throngs; the shoreline was empty. I could see the throngs, with
their backs to me about a hundred yards away, thronging off the beach and back
to their cabanas. I was alone with my triumph.
Whether from pent up fear, the
draining adrenaline or just fatigue, I started a slow, shaky walk up the beach.
“What the fuck,” I thought with surprising clarity. “I did it and I know I did it.”
For that moment it was enough for me.
For that moment it was enough for me.
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