Surfing Lessons
Take me to Lahaina, near the break.
Make me sign the waiver, the one where I assume all the risk.
If I die by drowning, I won’t hold you responsible.
Take me down the quiet street with plantation-style houses and souvenir shops. Unload a board from the back of your truck, the board with scratches from the reef, the one that survived waves and wipeouts and bodies pressed against it.
Make me carry it down to the beach. Lay it on its back, position me upon it. Orient me to the nose, the tail, the sweet spot. Show me how to stroke and stand and kneel.
Lead me down to the water, your own board beneath your arm. Keep your eyes out to sea, where the waves break. Cast a wary look at the beginners already in the water and the man-made wall on the other side of the channel. Lead me to the second buoy; designate it the resting spot between sets.
Show me your biceps and broad back, as you float out over the bruised-blue sea. Battle over mounting water and frothing white caps. Dive under a big one. Yell for me to paddle, to push my back out of the spray.
Lead me beyond the break, where the water is calm again. Confess that getting out is the hard part. Give me a moment to catch my breath, a moment to sit, bodies half in, half out of water. Let us drift back to the catching spot.
Tell me not to look; you’ll be my eyes. Tell me when to paddle, when to hang back. Yell, not this one. Let that wave slide beneath us and a few more. This one. Now! Paddle hard.
Let the force of the water drive me forward. Follow behind, on the same wave. You ride the top, as I ride the bottom. Maneuver to my side. Order me to hop to my feet.
Shout for me to bend my knees, to look in the direction I want to go, the board will follow my eyes.
But my eyes want to follow your voice.
Instruct me to catch half a dozen this way. Then let me ride water on my own. Note when more wave-riders arrive. They try to return out to sea up the channel, instead of up the side. Show me how to avoid collision, how to skate with the lean of my body around wiped-out surfers. Spare me the pain of bodies against boards.
Watch as I stand and ride, without falling. Not once. Observe the waves as they grow bigger, as I fight crashing water to get back out.
Notice my arms trembling with fatigue before you say, let’s call it a day.
Ride the last one in with me, all the way to shallow. Straddle the board between your legs and dismount. Tell me I was good, a natural.
Take me down the once-quiet street now crowded with tourists. Ignore those around us, browsing puka-shell necklaces and aloha shirts for loved ones back home. Ask me where I’m from. Say, of course, you had to be a local girl, when I say the Big Island.
Walk me back to the board house. Tell me to remove my rash guard. Watch me in my two-piece bikini step into the outdoor shower. Tell me you need my booties. Watch me slide the zipper down the inside of my ankle, slip them off and hand them over. Instead of placing them in the bin, stand there, watching droplets run down my skin. Stay suspended, as if still in water. Me, awaiting your next command.