I was fifteen again, bouncing along the back roads to the beach in our puke-green Suburban. Against Dad’s better judgment I sat behind the wheel, watching with amusement as he yawned and ran his hands through coffee-colored curls sprinkled with gray.
My loose ponytail was a few shades darker, a double espresso to his caramel latte, shot through with bold streaks of red and blond. I liked bold colors back then; black and navy and maroon and turquoise – hardcore colors that electrified the eyes. Things had changed.
We turned a corner and the sea appeared in front of us, bluish gray under a washed-out sky. The sun bled onto the horizon like orange watercolor, tinting the waves with the barest hint of gold. Hissing wind thrashed the water into foam-capped waves that slammed into the sand with the force of runaway elephants.
“Damn, look at it Dad! It’s beautiful!” “Language, Marci,” Dad said automatically,
My veins ran with saltwater instead of blood; my body was streamlined and sleek like a dolphin’s.
She was the mother of all adrenaline rushes, a great foam-freckled wall of water with a white curl at her crest. I could feel the force of the current within her tugging me out toward the open sea, sucking me into her shadow. She was the image of oceanic perfection, sent by the surf gods as a reward for our patient vigil in the water.
We turned a corner and the sea appeared in front of us, bluish gray under a washed-out sky. The sun bled onto the horizon like orange watercolor, tinting the waves with the barest hint of gold. Hissing wind thrashed the water into foam-capped swells that slammed into the sand with the force of runaway elephants.
I was fifteen again, bouncing along the back roads to the beach in our puke-green Suburban.
. So, goodjob, keep it up, and all that other stuff.
lyrical_sunshine wrote:She was the mother of all adrenaline rushes, a great foam-freckled wall of water with a white curl at her crest. I could feel the force of the current within her tugging me out toward the open sea, sucking me into her shadow. She was the image of oceanic perfection, sent by the surf gods as a reward for our patient vigil in the water. My heart pounded like a sledgehammer in my ribcage. It was one of those awesome, half-frightening moments when you realize that mankind will never conquer nature and we are stupid to try.
lyrical_sunshine wrote:I was made for the ocean. My veins ran with saltwater instead of blood; my body was streamlined and sleek like a dolphin’s. While other little girls and boys learned to recite their ABCs, I learned to surf. I knew how to interpret the tides and the currents before I could write in cursive. When I wasn’t surfing, I was kayaking; when I wasn’t kayaking, I was swimming; when I wasn’t swimming I was body-boarding. I surfaced to eat and sleep, but I might as well have been a fish for all the time I spent on solid ground.
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