Aquarius Falling

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

May 15, 1964

Wendy

Jack called to tell me he had gotten hired as the bell captain at the Majestica Atlantica Hotel, and he was starting that night. An important duty for the bellhops at this ancient queen of all the Ocean City hotels was the night fire watch. As Jack explained it, this required taking a type of clock device on a sweep of the hotel every hour. At a number of stations throughout the hotel, there were keys that somehow fit into this clock. This would confirm that someone was going through the hotel and making sure there were no fires or other problems. His first night on the job would be to learn the procedure and then train new bellhops. All, including Jack, would work a rotating shift.

After finishing my floor-waxing chore at the Sands, I cleaned up and went out for supper. I grabbed a burger at the Alaska Stand at Ninth Street and the boardwalk and continued walking south. There was a sock hop at the Ocean City Pier Ballroom. I climbed the stairs and paid the quarter admission. The interior of the ballroom reminded me of a high school gym with hardwood floors and a high ceiling with rafters. A giant mirrored ball was rotating from the ceiling, reflecting flashes of light around the semi-dark room. A DJ played Mary Wells’ “My Guy,” and about twenty couples were dancing. I never understood why they called it a sock hop. People always had their shoes on at every one of these things I’d ever been to. The room was about half filled with people who appeared between their mid-teens and mid-twenties. The next song was the up-tempo tune “Love Me Do” by the Beatles, which drew out more dancers. Three girls were standing at the far end of the room along the wall. One stood out more than the other two. She had blond hair that just touched her shoulders with bangs that fell midway on her forehead. I couldn’t tell you what the other two girls looked like—she was a stone fox, and she had my full attention. As I started to walk in her direction, the Beatles song finished, and the DJ started playing “Surfer Girl” by the Beach Boys. Two guys approached her friends for a dance, leaving my blond standing alone. Perfect.

“Wanna dance?”

“Sure,” she said, stepping into my arms. 

She wore a white sleeveless shell, madras shorts with boat shoes and no socks. Her only jewelry was a gold pin in the shape of a circle that was pinned above her heart. A healthy tan contrasted with her white teeth and very blond hair, and her small nose turned up at the tip like a miniature ski jump. Her high cheekbones and pointed chin created a heart-shaped face. As we danced, her hair brushed against my face and tickled my nose. I smelled peaches. She had to have weighed less than a hundred and have been no taller than five-feet one-or-two-inches. I felt as if I were dancing with a bird.

As we moved to the Beach Boys’ harmony I asked, “So are you a ‘surfer girl’?”

“Yes, actually, I am.”

“I thought surfing was mostly a guy thing.”

“It pretty much is. For every one chick there are probably fifteen to twenty dudes.”

“So do you have a surfer boyfriend? Sounds like women have a lot to choose from.”

“Most of the surfers think they’re really hip, but they’re not. They’re flakes, and I’m just not into them. They think they can drop in on me because I’m a chick.”

“What do you mean? Do they go to your home?”

She laughed. “No…no.…You’re not a surfer, are you?”

“No, but I’d like to get a board and learn.”

“Well, then, you need to learn the language. Right now, you’re just a hodad, a nonsurfer that just hangs out on the beach. When you do start to surf, you’ll be a gremmie because you won’t be able to surf very well. And it’s not a board—it’s a stick. And ‘drop-in’ means a dude who gets on my wave after I’m already on it. So I really don’t care for most of the dudes that surf. Besides, there are lots of chicks around. They’re called beach bunnies if they don’t surf. You see them sitting on the beach while the dudes are surfing. They’re either dating one of the dudes or they want to date one.” Her voice was soft and feminine with a lyrical rhythm. I could have listened to her talk all night.

“My name’s Tom Delaney, but everyone calls me Delaney. What’s your name?”

“Wendy Morrison.”

The Beach Boys song was winding down, but I wanted to keep dancing and talking to Wendy. The DJ started playing “The Stroll” by the Diamonds. Not good for talking but a fun dance, so I said, “Let’s stroll,” and we did. As we started to walk off the dance floor, the Drifters started singing “This Magic Moment.” We looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Cha-cha?” We danced the cha-cha to the Drifters, and when the song finished playing, Wendy was laughing and smiling. We left the dance floor holding hands, went outside, and walked to the edge of pier. There was no moon yet, and the sky was filled with more stars than I’d ever seen. We looked to the horizon where stars vanished into the black sea. We listened to the music from the ballroom as it blended with the crash of the surf against the pilings of the pier.

“Are you still in school?” I asked.

“No, I just graduated high school. I’ve been accepted at Hood College. I’ll major in French and Spanish. I want to be an interpreter at the UN. What about you?”

She tilted her head and fingered a strand of hair, smiling while I gave her my story of Georgetown and my current jobs. 

“When do you do your surfing?”

            “I work part-time in my daddy’s law office. so I don’t get to surf every day. Usually Tuesdays and Thursdays—and weekends, of course.”

“Where do you surf? I’ve never seen anyone surfing in this area. You don’t try to ‘shoot the pier,’ do you?”

“Yeah, ‘shoot the pier’—that stuff is fiction. Only dudes wanting to commit suicide do that. No, you can’t surf here.”

“Too many people?”

“Yeah, I mainly surf on Assateague Island.”

“Where’s that?”

“You’ve never been to Assateague? Oh, it’s really cherry.  It’s a barrier island that’s a national park. There’s no development allowed—no hotels, no houses, almost no tourists—just some campers and a few people surf fishing.  Oh, and of course, the ponies.”

“Ponies?”

“What? You mean you’ve never read Misty of Chincoteague?” She laughed.

“I assume that wasn’t written by Chaucer.”

Laughing again, she said, “Noooo, there are wild ponies on the islands. Chincoteague is the island south of Assateague, and these ponies run wild on both islands. It’s really cool to see them just roaming free like nature intended.”

“So you go surfing on this island of the wild ponies.”

“Yeah. Well, here’s another cool thing about Assateague: you need a four-wheel drive vehicle to go there, which helps keep out a lot of people. For my sixteenth birthday, Daddy bought me a Jeep so I could surf there.”

From the ballroom, the Beatles were singing, “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah…” while Wendy was talking, and I thought, Hope she does. I took her hand in mine and said, “Let’s dance some more.” We walked hand in hand to the ballroom and danced every dance.

“I’ve had fun, Delaney. Seems funny calling you by your last name and not Tom or Tommy. But I have to go. I have a forty-five-minute drive, and my parents don’t like it when I’m on the road late at night.”

“I’ll walk you to your Jeep.” We held hands as we walked to her car.

“Can I see you again? I’d like for you to teach me to surf.”

“Yeah, that would be fun. I’ve never taught a dude to surf before. I’ll call you. How can I reach you?” she asked as we reached the topless Jeep.

We were holding hands when she turned to face me. Putting my arm around her, pulling her toward me, and kissing her felt like the most natural thing I’d ever done. Her full lips were moist, soft, and welcoming. She pulled back, climbed into the driver’s seat, and asked again, “So how can I reach you?”

“Call The Sands Hotel. I don’t even know the number, but it’s in the book. Just ask for Delaney.”

She started the Jeep and shifted into first gear. As I stepped back, she looked at me and smiled, saying, “I’ll call you. It’s been fun.” Then she said, “Bonsoir, mon amour,” and drove off. I watched the glow of the red taillights fade into the night and wondered what her last words meant.