Wrestling With a Monster

I spend my weekends in the ocean these days, getting tossed by the waves. When I get to the beach I hastily spread my towel under the white sun, anchoring a corner with my small canvas bag. My black rubber flip flops fly off in two kicks and I race to the water’s edge.

I like that first plunge into the sea— the deep strides into charging foam. Cold water licking my ankles, my knees, my thighs, my hips, circling my waist. Toes gripping dense sand, pushing me forward until I can swim.

I spent most of my childhood summers in a swimming class, so I’m a strong swimmer. It’s one of the few outdoor activities my body seems built for. Broad shoulders, long legs. I can tread water for hours.

I swim to meet the waves and am carried up and over. It gets easier when my feet leave the ground. That first lift reminds me that surrender makes things easier.

Each wave is different. You meet it at a different stage. Sometimes it passes under and through you. Sometimes it grips your body in a white fury, thrashing you below the surface until its rage is spent. Sometimes— most times— I watch it build, and dive beneath its cresting anger. I feel it gurgle and roll across my bare back, hear it crash underwater in the distance somewhere. It feels like we’re working together then. Like we’re on the same side. Like we’re friends.

I was at the beach with a friend recently and returned to the sand to discover I’d been carried by a current several yards down the coast. I saw my friend at the waterline near our towels, her back to the sand, watching the waves. When I called her name, she turned around and I saw the panic fade from her face.

“You always go so far out,” she says. Her hand is no longer shielding her eyes searching the distance. The worried knot between her eyebrows is softening.

We laugh and plunge into the waves together, again.

At night I watch videos of big wave surfers off the coast of Portugal. Men and women slicing through winter waves the size of six-story buildings. These people know more about the ocean and its power than I ever will, but I wonder if we fall asleep with the same bobbing feeling in our bodies.

I love it out there. Far out there. It feels like playing with a monster. Or God. Or grief. I don’t know. Maybe I like being overcome by something I can see. Maybe I like knowing that something dangerous can also be kind. Maybe I just like feeling wild.