Sunday, July 10, 2011

Sequels

My wife is sitting across the table from me and our laptops are out in battleship configuration. She told me she'd give me a topic on which I had to write -- immediately I felt myself getting angry. Not a good sign, perhaps for a man about to enter an MFA program. Nonetheless I pretended to be interested, and asked, what was the topic?

Sequels, she said. But then, being well-versed by now in my limited repertoire of facial expressions, she added that I really didn't have to do anything. Making the sign of a zipper across the mouth and discarding a tiny key, she began to type.

Sequels. That's fine. I think first of sequins, of some spangled gown, but there's nothing in that direction since the wardrobes which which I come into most contact, my wife and my son's, are composed primarily of cottons and various wicking fabrics that one finds at outdoor and adventure stores.

I did experience a sequel of sorts today -- my last surf session here in Florida before I head up to frigid and brainy Boston, Boston of the milky sky. My surfing friends have always been unreliable. I also fit into that pattern of behavior where they are concerned. Missed movies, broken promises to do dinners together, surf trips to Costa or Niceragua aborted at the last moment. Just about the only thing we could rely on was that we'd show up when it was time to surf. In preparation for my move I was selling off my meager quiver of boards. I had a 9'0" longboard that I put on Craigslist, but my friend J came by to see me and told me, in his casual way (standing with legs spread, sunglasses posted on forehead) that he would be happy to buy it from me, because he needed a longboard.

That was Saturday. Today I got a call from him. He wanted to go surf. One last time. One last sequel. Since he hadn't purchased my board yet, I took it with me. Waves were waist high, water cold from some upwelling event, sky clear above us but dark to the south, that darkness emitting an occasional low growl of thunder. I was happy, and wistful. I'd had so many great sessions here, along this bit of coast, too many to count. I'd had a run of wonderful sequels which was now coming to a close. No more mild Florida water. No more chats with the other surfers in the lineup. No more moments of frozen time and complete oblivion as I guided my board along the face of some wave. My surfing life was coming to an end. That was sad. And yet, I was happy too. Happy that I'd come here. Happy that I'd made friends with people like J, who really knew how to rip, and who took their surfing to a level of artistry that would always elude me. I liked watching him. I liked his ease in the water. I liked his faded tattoos and the swell of gut he'd acquired since I first started surfing with him. I even liked (not the pain he experienced but the many stories he had acquired as a result of) his tendency to marry neurotic women. This time, though, he felt he'd gotten it right. Since we started surfing he'd been divorced twice, and now his girlfriend was pregnant. This made him nervous. I was glad to hear him talk about it in the waves. There are things you can say to your surfing friends in the lineup that you can't say anywhere else. It's like opening the door on your subconscious. We happily gave vent to the most vile and disgusting images in our psyche. We traded vicious insults. We picked out waves for each other.

I had to be home for lunch. This is what I'd promised. There was packing to do and a young son that needed attention. I looked at the pier, and down the coast toward the two hotels which marked the halfway point of the beach. I thought about all the sessions, the friends, the waves, the shifting sand, the hurricanes, the crazy wipeouts I'd seen, the girls ripping, the young dudes throwing jellyfish at each other, the broken boards, the bloody faces, the hope of every surfer, always believing in that next wave. And that's the thing about surfing, I guess. Each session is a series of sequels. Each wave is a step into the next perfect moment. I promised myself to find a way to surf when my school was done.

I don't know if I'll make it back or not. Boston might change me. Make me happy in tweeds. I might to my horror love sailing or sculling. I might turn into some red-faced pedant on skates, or some ecstatic ski bum in the northeastern mountains. I sure hope not. There's nothing like glass. But I guess Boston is the next sequel. It's my wave and I'm taking it.

And by the way, J. never called to buy the board. I will have to sell it to a stranger. I'm glad that old J. didn't let me down by suddenly becoming reliable.

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