I said nothing. Just started in on my mouth exercises for all those blow jobs.
Classes on campus were obviously cancelled, and students who couldn’t travel home hunkered down in Randall Library to ride out the storm. Businesses boarded up, Wrightsville Beach was under a mandatory evacuation, and news updates urged Wilmington residents to leave as well. I called my parents this morning to make sure Dad finished boarding the windows. Nicki and Brad planned to stay with them. Dad begged me to stay, too, but I told him I’d be fine with Reece.
I looked out onto the Atlantic, watching her slap and crash onto the shore, her waves building higher and higher as the minutes ticked.
“Bailey, I really don’t want you doing this,” Reece said. “You’re really tiny, and that ocean looks angry.”
“Let the girl do her thing,” Christopher interjected.
Reece turned to him. “And that goes for you, too!”
Christopher raised his eyebrows. “What? So I can’t surf ‘cause I’m black and I’m short? You’re a condescending jerk.”
“I don’t feel comfortable with any of this!” Reece said. “If you two die, I’m left with Camden, and I cannot be left with just Camden!”
“Reece, sometimes you just gotta let go, okay?” I replied. “You’ve no idea how therapeutic this is for me. I need it.”
He looked at me desperately.
“I respect the water, Reece. I know when it’s time to turn around.” I looked back out onto the ocean and said what I always say right before I run toward the waves: “You’re bigger! You’re stronger! And I give you mad props!”
“Is that a thing you—”
“Shhh! Don’t ruin it,” I said.
Reece fell silent.
“You’re bigger! You’re stronger! And I give you mad props!!” I turned to my boyfriend and grinned. “Cowabunga, dude.” And then I was gone in a flash, racing down the bank, running full speed into the chilly water.
I collapsed on my board and started pumping my arms feverishly. I never had the best upper body strength. It made surfing on a normal, semi-windy day difficult. But pre-hurricane winds were something else entirely. My arms started burning before I made it over the third choppy wave.
“Come on!” I cried, pushing harder, harder out to sea. I wanted that big one. It was coming—a wall of water you usually only saw on the West Coast. So huge, so beautiful and frightening and everything a hurricane wave was supposed to be. I breathed in. Knees up. She came faster than I expected. Feet planted. Catch it! Catch it, Bailey!
I tumbled off the board, crashing into a whirlwind of bubbles, flipping like a ragdoll in the washing machine. I righted myself and popped out of the water, waving to Reece who, I’m sure, was having a heart attack at this very moment.
“I’m cool!” I shouted, but I knew he couldn’t hear me.
I climbed back on my board and paddled out.
“Okay, baby doll. It’s one to zero. But you gotta be nicer. It’s been a while for me, and you know it,” I said, pumping by arms and watching as Huge Wave #2 approached . . . with a bit of an attitude, if I’m being perfectly honest. I sensed another wipeout in the very near future and shrank against my board.
Pow! Smack! Splash!
I churned in the ocean, finding it rather difficult to right myself this time. For a moment I swam in the opposite direction, deeper into the water. Bailey, what the fuck? I thought, turning around. I popped up and waved to Reece. He was shouting at me, hands cupped around his mouth. Probably demanding I get out of the water, but there was no way I was going anywhere until I caught at least one wave.
I know what you’re thinking. Who’s this girl, right? People with “just so” lives do not surf. And you’re generally right. My father encouraged me to take up the sport as a way to manage my OCD. You can imagine my mother’s reaction. She was hysterical about it, wondering how a father could encourage a hobby that could wind up killing his child. That’s what she said to him. But Dad knew what he was doing, and the more I surfed, the better I was able to handle my schoolwork, the spontaneity of life as a child, the setbacks when my anxiety roared.
It changed as I grew older. I couldn’t surf as much. While some of my rituals disappeared for good (the peas counting, for instance), others popped up, brand new and shiny and ready to make my life a living hell. I realized while I floated on my board that I needed to devote more time to surfing. Reece was definitely a big help—he eliminated my counting and 7:58 A.M. ritual—but I had a much longer history with surfing. In the event Reece decided to walk away, surfing would still be there.
She was coming. She made the other two look like child’s play—stunted, weak waves compared to her grandeur. She deserved my words all over, and I paddled and huffed: “You’re bigger. You’re stronger. And I give you mad props.” Wait for it, Bailey. Wait . . . for . . . it . . .
And then magic. Perfect timing. Stars aligning. You feel it come up through your heels as soon as they strike the board. You’ve got it. You’ve got her. She’s carrying you, pushing you, and you feel the majesty of her strength—a power that could squash you like a bug, fold you into the water and make you vanish from the world forever. You reach out your hand and touch her, the water pumping hard and fast upward, upward, pulling on your fingertips, begging you to lean a little closer. So you do. You lean further into her, charge forward with slippery swiftness. Then she kisses you goodbye and catapults you to shore.
It’s like sex with nature.
I fell off my board in the surf and walked to shore. I watched Reece tear down the beach, completely out of breath when he caught up to me.
“What the fuck!” he screamed. “Bailey, oh my God! You’re, like, the hottest fucking chick I know!”
I laughed. Christopher came out of nowhere and poked me from behind.
“Girl, I give you that one,” he panted. “Missed it by a hair.”
“Aww, shucks,” I teased, wringing my ponytail.