I’m a fifty-year-old man. I wear a onesie that zips on the back. I pee in it when I please.
I carry casual conversations with people around me when I do, multitasking.
Vaseline and nail polish remover reside in my car.
Such is the life of a California surfer.
Bobbing in a neoprene wetsuit in pods of aquatic humans. Lubricating the rashes on the shoulders. Cleaning skin from the black tar that ocean spits out like an aloof teenager does chewing gum.
I choose a low-sodium diet. My recommended daily value is supplied by the ocean. I rub my sun-bleached eyebrows over a plain meal and the crystals drop in a miniature hailstorm.
“Now, with the natural sea salt,” I quip.
Today, the ocean is rolling a powerful swell from the storm that originated half way across the globe by Alaska. Gigantic wrinkles stretch across the ocean’s blue forehead.
The seaside promenade under the anorexic palm trees is as busy as ever. A bearded man plays his ukulele in a cloud of marijuana smoke. A couple of boys in baggy pants carve the asphalt with their skateboards. Gray-haired couples follow their curious dogs. Surfers hang on the railing, eyes and fingers following the action in the water.
“Ooooh!” the voices howl in response to a wipeout. The fallen rider emerges through the bubbling foam a few seconds later and looks for his broken board.
“That was a double overhead,” a suntanned man estimates the set size.
“Look, there’s John!” Chatterbox Charley yells. “At 78, still dropping into these huge waves!”
John’s red helmet slides down into the curling wave that opens like a mouth of a yawning beast.
I walk to the point, clutching my longboard and wait for the ocean to let me in. When the relentless waves pause, I launch and pedal as fast as I can. I glance at the crests ahead of me, confident that I’ll make it. I approach black wetsuits waiting for the set.
“Hey, your hair is still dry!” Mark smiles from his egg-shaped fun board.
I zig-zag through the lineup searching for the perfect take-off position, dodging adrenaline-charged wave chasers. I escape from a couple of liquid bombs that explode behind my back. Then, I see my wave. It lines up, ready to give me a lift. I add a few strokes, synchronize myself with it, and let gravity take over.
The wave opens one section after another like the pages of the story I’m reading. On one, I’m a powerful dolphin, speeding under a heavy lip. On the next, I am a gliding pelican, flying over the face of the wave, arms stretched out.
There is so much energy behind me, that I decide to ride as far as I can before it runs out.
I slow to a stop by the shore and jump off, expecting a shallow bottom landing. Instead, my feet go down into a deep trough. The current rips through it like a mountain river. I try wading on tip toes, when a sneaky wave knocks me down.
The oceanic washing machine whirls me. The cycle is anything but delicate, maybe it’s Permanent press.
Up, toward sunlight and seagulls. Down, toward darkness and sand crabs.
My fiberglass board turns into the blade of a turbine leashed to my ankle.
Should I let it go and climb out on all fours? This board is my floatation device and I may need it.
I hold my breath.
I’ll be fine, I’ve been here before.
When I pop up again, the dark silhouette of the redwood pier is looming in my peripheral vision. A hundred-year-old maze of logs patched with metallic bandages and sea stars; it reminds me of a menacing shipwreck. It evokes death.
I lunge forward. I’m so close. I can see the reflection in the sunglasses of lifeguards holding their orange floaties on the shore. I step onto the soggy sand when a blue wall rises behind my back.
My mind is already on land, but my body is sinking into the brown mush that grasps my legs.
I bury my fingers into it. They make tracks when the wave grabs me and carries me back. Cobblestones rush into the water after me, cackling like angry chickens, Cluck, cluck, cluck.
When I take another spin under water, questions tumble in my head.
Did I just touch my head with my feet? How soon can I take the next breath? Would I survive when slammed against the pier?
The rail of my board hits my arm.
Satisfied with our playdate, the ocean drops me on the shore at last.
I’m not missing the moment and crawl out before Neptune changes his mind. I release the bubble of water from my suit leg and it drains onto the dry asphalt. But the painful bubble above my wrist is swelling with a speed of a cartoon action.
“Pretty gnarly, dude!” Charley is the first to comment.
“Ye, a wicked ledge formed there by the pier. Nothing like I’ve seen before.” I take a deep breath, appreciating the abundance of oxygen.
Then I turn the nose of my board and my own in the direction of the point.
“I’m going for the second round!”
INSTANT NOODLES 