Debra Anne Davis-Bodysurfing

Published in Trekker Magazine, Winter 2007

As I walk, the sand under my feet changes from hot and yellow to wet and gray. This wet sand is hard and smooth; it doesn't give under my feet like the dry sand up on the beach did. I hold my hand up to my forehead in a salute, to shield my eyes from the sun. I squint out at the ocean; it's blue-green, with flecks of gold where the sun hits small waves in the swells.

I attempt to summon back the bubble of warmth I felt around me a minute ago, as I lay on my towel on the warm sand, under the hot sun. But now I feel the cool breeze, the hard sand. I take another step. A wave crashes in front of me and then spreads around my feet, two inches deep of chilly water. I pause. I take three more steps, and the water is up to my knees. I feel the bumps pop up on my upper arms, the tops of my thighs. A slight shiver. I wait for the next wave, and when it comes, I search for the spot, under the white foam but above the flat green surface of the water, the space where the wave is most concave. I find it and dive.

My hands enter the water first, then my head, my sunburnt shoulders, my covered breasts. The water rushes past me while, despite my jump and dive, I seem to remain suspended in the same place, hovering over a stationary stretch of submerged sand. The cold pierces me and spreads, chilling skin, muscle, bone.

My head senses its way up. I wipe the salt water from my face.

At eye level now, the ocean glints brighter, whiter, livelier. Further out, beyond where the waves are breaking, I see the swelling hills and valleys of water reflect the sun off of their moving surfaces. The water flashes in a random pattern, like a field of all-white Christmas tree lights.

I swim out. I paddle until there's a wave; then I dunk under it. When I dunk, my body feels the moving wall of water surround and then pass me; the top of my head feels the two feet of white foam skim across the surface above me. I hear the wet roaring; I feel the bubbles and sand churning against my skin. My feet reach for the sand bottom and then, just after the wave has passed over me (I can tell because the roar is now a whisper), I stand and push my head and neck up through the surface.

I tread water, the tops of my feet pushing cool streaks through the water. Then my body feels the slight suck, the water pulling me gently out, and I ready myself for the coming wave. I turn around so I am facing the shore, but I keep my head twisted back to watch for the wave behind me. It starts out as a long triangular bump in the water, then forms itself into a curve, the power coming from inside and pushing the tip of the triangle up and over.

When the half-formed wave is about three feet behind me (the timing is the trick), I quickly turn my head to face the shore and begin kicking and paddling as fast as I can. I catch the wave, or, rather, the wave catches me, just right. I am lifted slightly and then whooshed straight ahead, my belly sailing over the surface of the water, the rest of my body enveloped in the fast-moving balls of white foam that now form the top of the wave. The ocean pushes me from behind while the churning foam caresses me. I shoot straight towards the beach. My stomach muscles tense and relax. I stretch my hands straight out in front of me and smile into the green salt water.

When the wave slows down enough to drop me a few inches, I pull out. I bend my knees and dunk my head. I twist around under the water, holding my breath, and press my feet down on the sand floor. I keep my eyes closed and push myself up, chin and chest first. I am now facing into the wave; the force of the moving water streams my wet hair back behind me and pushes the triangles of my bathing suit top outwards. When the wave is behind me, I shake my head to splash out the salt water and quickly look down to make sure my breasts aren't exposed. I hook my thumbs into the folds of the lavender cloth and push the triangles together until they touch.

I lift my head and see the ocean, dynamic and languid-regal-in front of me.

I crouch down, lean forward, and let my body rest for a moment just below the surface of the water. I point my hands out in front of me, the fingers of my right hand resting lightly on the fingers of my left. I dig my toes into the sand, center my weight on the balls of my feet, tense my calf and thigh muscles. I push my body ahead and glide back out, to another solitary, sensual, socially-acceptable thrill. I am a warrior, an exhibitionist, a good example.

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