I See
Ro London
How did it start? I think we were lying in bed after a long night of drinking and so forth. Dawn was only just creating its glow. And with daybreak, a thin film of lingering cigarette smoke was revealed. An appearance with which came a new awakening to the acrid and stale smell that surrounded us and yet our breath was steady and accepting. Our bodies gratifyingly contorted, our minds introspective, it was then that I remarked on the oddity that was his surf board, petrified and upright in a far away corner of the room. He had it zipped up in its protective sea green body bag.
I cannot recall the dialogue which initiated our leaving the bed. But we were quickly piled in the car; he, I and the long blue board. I shared my seat with it looming over me. With the rag top on his roadster down, I could have held it up and away - my legs straddled its girth as it fought me for the seat, but I quickly gave in and allowed it to rest on the crown of my stooped head.
My hair twisted furiously in the wind. Over and over I tried to tame it - pat it down, hook it behind an ear. The headlights bobbed in the almost dark. There were goose bumps on my thighs. I reached around and turned the dial. The fan began to blow warm air on my bare feet. The face of his water-proof watch read 4:38. It was Thursday, July 29.
I contemplated the pastel stripes on the cotton boxer shorts around my hips and listened, for I could not really see much under the circumstances. With us one didn’t always have to recognize that the other was right there. I listened to the wind; to the insistent whirring sound of the wheels. And above it all, he was singing. It was a vibrant streak against the more subdued tones of a night time’s death. I mouthed the words I recognized, ingested the ones he’d changed since.
Around a corner the air became dose. “In just a few minutes,” he said, “the tide will start back in.” My heightened heartbeat disturbed the lullaby of a comfortable inebriation. I peeked out around what was balancing on my head to try and see what I had just begun to hear - the surf, as faint as air rushing around the inside of a sea shell.
“The sly isn’t promising us much,” he said. I did not reply. I pretended to know what he meant. And when I looked, it was a swirl of charcoal - an angry forehead.
“The water should be glassy.” He schooled me.
Guiding the car left around a hedge, gravel crunched and popped under the wheels. He pointed the convertible’s little nose at the sun bleached log which defined the change in terrain. I heard the zip of his seat belt retract and waited for him to round the car and lift out the board. He hoisted it tenderly under one arm and held out his free hand to me. I giggled at it and lolled my head back and forth lazily in a motion of coquettish objection. He took one step forward and tapped at my cheek playfully. So, I followed him down the beach.
The sand was cold, even where it was dry. I watched the water draw him closer. I quickened my stride to catch up with him. Silently I fell in beside him. A series of small waves moved toward shore, each lapping at our feet in turn. I found the chill refreshing. Our bare feet were a curiosity. I wondered at the long thin bones of his toes and quirkishly compared them to my own. A piece of seaweed clung desperately to his wet ankle. I wriggled my toes atop the cusps of sand to make my cuneiform look the way his did. He has a very high arch and I had a perfect pedicure. The ocean seemed to illuminate itself, metallic against the still dark horizon. And it cast a mystical glow toward colorless skin.
The board slapped the water’s surface and jerked in the uneasy flow. His strong foot steadied his friend.
“Come on, I’ll show you what it’s like.”
Wild with fear, I followed him a little deeper into the water. His unchanging stride did not quiver in the cold or recoil in the face of oncoming current. No, he and the water were understanding old friends.
The water was quick to steep my clothes. Drowning air created an unflattering balloon of the t-shirt I had not long ago been preparing to fall asleep in. Waist deep, the ends of his hair had begun to float. I hugged the shore and for the moment, was cautious of his affect on me and of what he had in mind.
Sedulously, he faced the horizon still. I turned my head for a moment to motion my hair from my face. Looking back again he had straddled his ride and now
mirrored the movement of the water. Occasionally I saw the pink of his feet rise to the surface as he flirted with the cold water. It was my false prediction that at any moment he would flatten his belly against his narrow raft to paddle further off to meet with a wave and leave me behind as audience to him, comfortably external, always an observer of his habits.
“Swim out.” He motioned with a swooping wet hand; twisting only for a moment to locate me on the shore, undaring. “What are you doing, collecting sea shells?” He let the tide usher him inland. In a fluid stride he dismounted and playfully caught me around the shoulders. With careful force he lent my body toward what he wished of me.
Spindrift slapped my face. A slow wave slipped the board between my legs. He caught hold of its tail and steadied its lashing until I was face down on top of it. At once I felt the retreating current beneath me. Sand and detritus sloshed against the wrinkled soles of my feet before slipping through my toes as the ocean inhaled.
I’d acceded in the nasty argument my face was having with the water before he could detect the opposition and disapprove.
He was there to steady me when the current proved more sure than I. He waded alongside of me, soothing me, reminding me of our having once practiced the quick maneuver into the prone position I would have to execute to perfection.
That was different. It was on a warped piece of pier which had been spit ashore. He’d tripped over it in the moonlight one night after reemerging from some brush, his fly still an object commanding attention. He’d re-enacted the surfers’ move of getting up to amuse me and to camouflage his foible. I had immediately climbed from the bluff to imitate the stance. To match his agility.
My arms began to enjoy the safe repetition of dragging a heavy cargo. He no longer steadied my course and had to now push himself harder to keep up in water which ticked his armpits. I treaded above a tentative depth. The water rolled under me and did not yet threaten to cover me instead. I thought maybe he’d leave me alone. That maybe he’d just let me float and float.
“Wait for it here.” He directed.
Secretly I hoped it wouldn’t come.
“Don’t you trust me? Trust me.” He insisted.
Over the wind and water, it sounded like he’d said something else.
“Now, test your center of gravity.” He said.
“I’m drunk.” I reminded him. My feet and hands felt very far away. How could I count on them to save me?
“I’m right here. See me.”
A sloppy mass of ocean lifted me. I looked toward him the moment I thought my feet were steady. He was much farther away from where I’d started and was caught in a disease of foam. I suspected him, blind and deaf, suffused in a moment of absolute quiet. The horizon and the shore were so well suited a couple I could not discern which was which and I twisted in the tide, my footing permanently lost. My face burst into warmth as I violently surfaced. I fought a helmet of wet hair and successive mouthfuls of sour water. And then his hands were on me.
“Don’t think of it as your enemy.” He advised holding me enough above the water so that I could regain my command.
“Where’s your board?” I panicked.
“It’s around. The water’s not that rough.”
“Ha!” I pushed him away falling without grace again into the black. I pressed toward gray beach. I stubbed my toe and lurched forward when the sharp floor finally met with my accelerated stride. A quick sideward current delivered the board. It smacked me in the knees and lingered and blocked my way. I turned, curious of his lack of attention toward a toy he held so dear. In one languid motion I watched him snap his head sending his wet mane aloft. His two open palms wiped the moisture from his face. He was a slippery shark. He found me standing there and then turned away, excluding me.
Paddling back out to him again in spite of myself, I laughed aloud at something private. I did not resemble a beautiful mermaid, determination clouded my face.
I only made it to my knees before sister sea knocked me aside. I was glad I fell against him, it sparked something remembered.
We sat together on the board, resting, listening to the chatter of the water. I followed the path of a few droplets streaking his face, hanging onto the tip of his nose, scaring his neck.
“I wanna go back. I’ll watch you.”
He shrugged.
“Why do you want me to do this?”
“Why not? To see you move.” He dragged his fingers through the dark liquid.
“I’m afraid of the water.” I splashed around trying to propel us shoreward.
“Be still. Listen to its heartbeat. It would be an easy communion. It’s just another body moving beneath you.”
“And I’ve had so many.” I sighed.
The sea was like a tremendous hand. The water rolled in from across the ocean just to touch me and carry me ashore. How far and long a journey.
Chaos turned calm and dark to the brash light of the sun on an overcast day. My legs were tangled in white foam that felt like annoying fingers invading me.
Forgiveness is not a given. I thought about how angry he made me as I lay on my back not sure I could feel anything except too much water. Not knowing if I could see or hear. Was that light? I’d rather a pall. I tasted not quite salt. My lips were gritty and tart. Sand slipped under my tongue.
My heart made a knocking sound in my chest. A shadow crossed my eyes. As it became focused I realized it was the last time I ever wanted to see its shape. The earth had made things clear. I could decide, would decide. Now.
I struggled away when he drew me close to kiss the air back into me.
“It was a very graceful pitch.” He whispered patting my back. I coughed. He told me, ssshhhh.
I pulled myself to my feet and began to brush away black dotted sand which was too soaked and tenacious to simply comply.
“I’m going for a walk.” I decided. “Don’t follow me. OK?”
“What then?”
“Write lyrics that will tell of some new love, that will break my heart.”
“I may love. But there is only one muse.”
I had already started off. The red of my toenails showed through the sand as I watched for sharp objects. “For me too.” I shouted to the wind.
