Stella Martinez catches the wave

I feel like the day my mother yanked me out of school, tossed my bathing suit at me in the back seat of the car and announced to my brother and me, “ you guys are going body surfing.” It was a pre Hurricane Donna ocean and the south Ft. Lauderdale beaches were going to get slammed. People were shuttering their windows, the coast guard had issued high sea warnings, everyone was fleeing the storm. I kept wondering what is wrong with this picture as we made our way to the beach. I couldn’t have been more than 5’ tall, skinny with a mop of curly hair. I stood on the shore, assessing the force of my contender, the sand quickly eroding under my feet as the current attempted to drag me into the torrent. Storm clouds ominous gray and black stretch towards the horizon in an unbroken mass of threatening violence. What is she thinking?

Glancing at my brother, he grins before taking the plunge. I follow, swimming out into the turbulent water, quickly determining where I can stand... thigh deep for leverage to push into the wave but deep enough that I can find refuge by diving under.

Body surfing mimics life in that timing plays a major role. Looking up into the frenzied froth looming over me I wait wait for a sensible moment to take the wave but one never comes. This wave has murderous intentions so I dive into the seething crescendo.. holding my breath, feel the massive turbulence swell over me in a gently rocking motion. Such an oxymoron. Two feet above my head chaos reigns but down under it’s a baby’s cradle. Rising to the surface I spy another one more threatening than the first. I dive again and again ... shocked that I am out in this force of nature that is determined to do me death by smashing me into the sand and splintering me like a busted two by four. What is she thinking and where the hell is she? I have no sight of my brother. The undertow is pulling me out and the behemoth waves are getting larger and more frequent... I am going to have to grow gills if I am to survive this onslaught.

Then somehow the years of training, preparing me for this event bubble to the surface of my consciousness and I realize that there is no choice but to find the wave that’s going to deliver me home. Scrambling to where I can feel the bottom under my feet I wait for what seems like an eternity to a ten year old....and then I spy it... six out... the storm is taking a breather... it’s my ride...only as it draws closer it gains in size.... are you sure?... and I wait wait until the ‘now’ floods through my brain and I push off into the fury. Nono no... I pull my little body into a ball ...realizing I am in the grip of the beast and I have to get as small as possible... become a grain of sand....as I am being drawn out of the water and into the air.... I am on the crest, I am a dribble of spit.

My mother glances up from her book in time to see a pink dot explode pass her windshield. I had been thrown about forty feet... missed the concrete breakwater by inches. No broken bones, though... no cerebral hemorrhage. Fighting the pelting rain she gathers me up in her arms and inquires, “fun, huh? My deepest suspicions were confirmed: I was in the presence of an insane woman or a great teacher. Either way, I got the message first hand....sink or swim..... but all these years later I wonder, when do I get to float?