Late Summer 1978, The Waves Come Crashing

Sunshine and a temperature of eighty degrees; the cloudless sky is blue and stretches uninterrupted to the horizon. Late afternoon in August, warm ocean water surrounds me. I am standing chest deep in the sea, a couple hundred feet from the shore. My neck twists to watch the wave crest behind me. Throwing my arms out to form a flesh and blood crucifix I bounce forward and up at a 45-degree angle in hope the wave catches me. It works.

First up, then forward, my body blasts past, sometimes through, the old guys and small kids who are just wading. The wave has caught the bottom of my arms and I am heading quickly towards the shoreline. I rush and rush. The ocean here is gritty and has small bits of seaweed, dark green and pocketed with delicate bubbles of air floating in it. As I rush over this gunk, I invariably suck some salt water into my mouth and nose.

When the ride is over I lie for a second on the beach with sand in my swimming trunks. Standing I shake it out. In this moment all I want to do is get back out there and catch another wave. Body surfing is mindless fun. The cycle of walking out, watching the waves, tensing up and then heading back to shore in that momentary burst of motion and adrenaline joyfully sucks the energy out of you. Vigor evaporates not in little bits but by the handful, by the bucketful. Again, again, into the waves and froth. In my mind I think there will be an even larger and better wave or maybe not. However, I keep taking myself out until I am limp and pulverized.

Eventually I drag my tired waterlogged ass up to my towel. My fingers are like prunes wrinkled and unnaturally white. Lying on the blanket I close my eyes but the sun still beats its way through my eyelids especially when I am lying on my back. Turn over, turn over again. Screw any worries about skin cancer. I am decades away from forty. Hell, maybe the suntan lotion (no we are not talking about sunscreen) has an SPF of 4. Hours will pass. My tan deepens and another beach day ends.

My favorite part of the day’s end is watching the light disappear. Looking at the Atlantic from this New Jersey beach you don’t witness the brilliant colors of a sunset. You have to be on the other side of the island to see that. What you see is the ocean's color changing. It changes from bright reflective blue, almost the image of a broken mirror, to white gray, and then to dark green and black over about two or so hours.

It is that shift to the point where the water reflects the pale light of mid-twilight that I love the  most. Here I am as close to God as I can be. Walking out into the water I let my mind go blank. Warm water and warm air, this is my vision of heaven. My sense of self evaporates. It won’t last long but this is a magical moment. I am at peace, real peace, true peace. Absolved of every burdening thought, freed from every worry and demand of time the water laps against my waist.

Suddenly the day has passed.  With silence time tracks on. Quickly comes this late summer night moving into early morning with a full moon hanging clear. There is no haze tonight. On an evening like this the dunes are more moonscape than earthly world. Early August and the night should be hot and muggy but it isn't. Being on this thin strip of land with water so close on either side, the wind cools the evening quickly. There is dampness in the air. You never escape it on the beach, but it is not oppressive. 

On the beach after dark, I stare out at the rising and falling waves. I feel the rhythm as I hear the waves fall, one after another in their infinite cycle. I hum a country song, sort of. It is a new  song closer to folk rock than to Merle Haggard. “The sun is slowly sinking down, but the moon is surely rising.” Ah sweet baby James’ tune and words hang in my head. A couple of choruses play out in my head and then I grow quiet. Off I head to this summer’s rental apartment and sleep. With luck and grace tomorrow will be just as beautiful.