Girl Out of Water
Laura Silverman
For Grandma,
a steadfast lover of books and of me
One
I float in the Pacific Ocean.
As I straddle my longboard, cool water lapping around me, I watch surfers up and down the coast take on baby waves, four-footers that will carry them a short distance before breaking into froth and foam.
I’m waiting for something better.
The sun beats down on the slip of my neck between my wet suit and hairline. The tender skin burns, but I don’t dare move to massage it. Seagulls circle overhead, squawking over the swilling water. They dive to the surface, then soar back up, carrying scraps of seaweed and tiny fish.
And then I see it—in the distance, coming toward me, coming for me. My gaze flickers over the green-blue water as I watch the wave take shape. It’s not a three-footer or even a four-footer. No, it’s much better. My fingers drum against my thighs, and I lean forward, gnawing my sun-chapped lip.
As the water climbs, mounting higher and higher, my body thrums with anticipation. Waves are mild in Santa Cruz. It’s rare to catch an overhead one, for me anything taller than five ten. But the wave coming for me now, the wave rattling toward me with unfettered determination, looks closer to ten feet, which would make it the tallest ride I’ve ever had.
I know I should feel fear—fear of a riptide dragging me under, fear of losing control and cracking my head against my board’s sharp fin—but all I feel is overwhelming adrenaline. This is it. My miracle wave.
The water hurtles forward with growing fury. I slide from my sitting position onto my stomach, my lower body pressed firmly against the board, hips taut and feet pointed. With a practiced arm, I paddle to the right so that my board spins to face the shore. I take two short breaths and then a single deep one, a ritual I’ve been doing since I was a little kid. And then, before I have time to second-guess or readjust, the wave is right behind me. I jump to my feet. The cold spray is everywhere, consuming and empowering. I’m riding the wave, a beautiful and terrifying barrel wave that arcs over my head so that I’m parallel to a wall of rushing water, the nose of my board just seconds ahead of the break.
But then my lead falters. The wall of water becomes a dome of water, surrounding me on all sides, and then I do the most reckless thing possible: I panic.
I should submit to the wave, dive under and wait for it to pass overhead. Instead, I try to keep going, which is basically impossible when ten feet of water crashes on top of you. The force slams into me, submerges me deep beneath the surface, cutting off all oxygen and any sense of up and down as I swirl like a helpless scrap of plankton. My board flips up behind me and knocks me hard in the side. I instinctively gasp and salt water rushes in, burning my throat.
Air. Air. Air.
I claw my way back to the choppy surface, gasping and wrestling onto my board for support. My heart pounds, my side throbs, and seawater clogs my ears. And in the distance, the remains of my miracle wave rocket toward shore without me.
? ? ?
I paddle back to the coast in defeat. Eric greets me. A sweatband pushes back his curly blond hair, so I can clearly see the amusement in his eyes. “Holy shit, Anise.” He pats me on the back. “Rad fucking ride.”
“Shut up.” I lift my surfboard, then spear it into the sand. “Like you haven’t been pitted a million times.” I unzip the top portion of my wet suit and tug it off my shoulders, letting the fabric hang around my waist.
“Dude, that was a compliment. No need to get your bikini in a twist.” He grins at me, and I bristle. “Seriously, though. Chill. Wiping out on a ten-footer isn’t going wreck your reputation of most awesome surfer ever.”
He’s not just flattering me. I am an awesome surfer—the best in our group of friends, a dozen or so of us who get together almost every day during summer from low tide to high. “I know,” I finally say. “But it’s still infuriating. That was such a good wave, and I almost had it.” I shift on my feet, then glance back at the towering swells. “I’m going again.”
I’m reaching for my surfboard when Eric places a hand on my shoulder. “No, you’re not,” he says. “We promised everyone we’d meet them at the Shak for lunch, and we’re already like an hour late.”
His hand lingers for a moment, hot against my bare skin, and I have to force myself not to lean into the touch—this is Eric, my friend of seventeen years; the kid I took bubble baths with as a toddler when his mom watched me overnight; the absurd preteen who, when I first got my period, made a mini surfboard out of my pads and tried to float it on shallow waves; the person who has spent countless rainy afternoons on my couch, in pajamas, watching surf competitions on ESPN2 and stuffing down days’ worth of junk food in one sitting.
This is also Eric, my recently single and unfairly attractive friend, whose six-pack is glistening at me like a fucking Hollister billboard.
“Fine.” I force myself to pull away from his touch. “Let’s go food.”
I hate to leave the ocean on a sour note, especially when it’s offering up glorious waves, but I have a bad habit of ditching my friends for surf. So Eric and I both grab our boards and head down the shore toward the Shak, which is technically called Suzie and Sal’s Surf Shak, but all of the locals (and the yearly tourists who think they’re locals) go with the shorthand version.