Deep

1

    I stood on the dock that day, which is a thing I hardly ever did. It was far too frightening to be suspended on a flimsy, bridge-like structure that suddenly stopped over the water, going nowhere, having no purpose. In reality, the jetty was a mighty monument to modern ingenuity, firmly planted like a guardian of the beautiful and delicate beach. It was enormous, standing at least fifty feet above the water’s surface, stretching out about a quarter-mile. From above, the dock was a great T-shape. The tip of the T, a quarter-mile out over the water, had an abandoned little guard tower, several rickety, old picnic tables, and a flimsy railing round the edge.

            When you are afraid, it takes a very long time to walk a quarter-mile.  I did it only because I would be ridiculed if I did not. I had spent the warm Saturday morning watching Renée, my best friend, carve it up along Ocean Beach. She was an amazing surfer, always competing in competitions, bringing home trophies, and telling stories about meeting famous pro surfers who I had to pretend I knew.  She had agreed to have lunch with me on North Street, at our favorite burger joint, Hodad’s, if I would wait for her to finish practicing with a few of her surfer-friends. Before I knew it, Renée had invited each one of them to lunch, too. I didn’t really mind, though. They were a nice, funny, and generally cool crowd.

            As Renée and her friends surfed, I watched. But after a while, I wasn’t watching them anymore. I was watching the waves. I had always been afraid of the water, but it had always been the most beautiful thing I could possibly think of. I longed to love it, to be at home in it. But the waves were terrifying in deep-down-in-your-chest way. They undulated and swirled, a dazzling maelstrom of color and light. Each wave curled over the air, gracefully collapsing into a roaring charge of churning white foam.  The sun caressed each peak as they sought to reach the shore, playing flirtatiously with the infinite amount of blues and greens hidden in the dark water’s depths. CRASH, sigghh. CRASH, sigghh. CRASH, sigghh. Each wave stuck the shore, then, upon realizing it could not stay, receded in disappointment. They created a wild, dancing rhythm, a temptuous, repetitive crashing that was the lifesong of all Creation. As I watched, I-

“AAAAAA-VUUUHH! ARE YOU COMING OR WHAT?!”

            I jerked awake, out of the stupor I must have been sitting in for a half an hour, to see Renée and her friends sitting on the grass behind the beach’s boundary-wall, dusting the sand off of themselves, laughing, and pulling on some clothes. I hopped up from my place on the beach and walked over quickly, my feet digging into the soft sand and my ears enjoying the soft scrape, scrape of each footstep. I hopped over the two foot-high concrete boundary wall, crossed the sand-covered sidewalk, and dropped into the grass beside Renée, who was dusting damp sand off of her coffee-colored legs. She grinned at me.

“Took you long enough,” she teased, “What were you doing?”

“Just…staring, I guess.”          

            The guys chuckled and I smiled, looking round the group of four surfers. There was Renée, who was my same age, and whose mom was mulatto and whose dad was half-Korean, half-Italian. She was probably the prettiest person I had ever met. She had the African corkscrew-curls that suck out in a lush afro, even when wet. Her skin was a shade somewhere between olive and coffee with cream, and she had a smattering of freckles across her high cheekbones and pronounced dimples. The startling part was her eyes. They were big, with that lovely almond shape that her Korean grandmother had. The color was the kicker, though. They were gold. Dazzling, shimmering gold that caught the sunlight and sparkled when she teased.  Sometimes it was so frustrating to be her best friend.

            Then there was Rick, a huge sophomore, probably held back a couple of times, who loved an excuse to take off his shirt. He was tan, because of his constant presence at the beach, and sandy-haired, but even though he was a bit arrogant, he was usually sweet and funny, with dark eyes that glinted when he teased. Next was Leah, a four-foot-seven redhead, smattered with freckles, who could and would bite your nose off if you dared mention her height. She was the best surfer of the group, and she always stood with her arms crossed, as if she disapproved what you were saying. Beside her was Alfie, a slightly tubby, slightly slow guy, who was about seventeen. He was probably the kindest soul alive, and he took pride in the fact that, in him, chivalry was not dead. He was the sort who still opened doors for girls and offered to pay for their suppers. We never let him, though. We didn’t want to take advantage of his sweetness.