But then I smiled to myself. Yes, really.
I ran straight at the ocean, my legs crashing through the low waves, the salt water freezing, and then I dived down; my face and hands scraped the bottom and I surged up, grabbed the water in my hands and pulled myself out, stroke after stroke. I swam the crawl, only occasionally lifting my head to breathe.
Silky water embraced me, held me up, the feeling like a promise. A promise of buoyancy, of not letting me fall. A promise you never get from the air. If you lose your balance in the air, you always fall.
The taste of the ocean was in my mouth: salt, sand, small creatures. Water was all around me, containing me, shaping itself to my contours.
What I mean to say is:
It was amazing.
I swam all the way up to the first pier, then turned and swam back to the little pile my clothes made on the sand. My movements were stiff at first, forced, but got smoother as I swam, the feeling coming back to me. I felt free and I thought about nothing except the waves and timing my breathing and my strokes.
As I neared my clothes, I saw your truck. You were driving onto the sand where the road merged with the beach. The way you took me, that time. You drove a little way down the long, wide stretch of beach, toward the shore, and then you turned in the direction of Pier One.
I swung my legs down, planted my feet in the hard wet sand; it compacted around my toes. I stood and waved with both arms.
The white pickup slowed, then turned and drove toward me. You parked up by my jeans and T-shirt.
I walked slowly out of the water as you stood by the pickup, your arm on the open door. You raised a hand as I got close.
“Venus exiting the sea,” you said with a smile. You were wearing Ray-Bans.
“You’re letting him see your body,” said the voice, because you were too far away to mute it. “You’re letting him see your disgusting—”
“Yeah?” I said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Kidding,” you said, thinking I was speaking to you, raising your hands in mock defense as I neared you. “I’m not looking.”
The voice disappeared. I was too close to you now; I was in your force field.
“What do you mean, you’re not looking?” I asked.
You raised your sunglasses. Your eyes were closed. “See?”
I laughed. “Okay, keep them closed. I’m going to get dressed.”
“You didn’t bring a towel.”
I looked around. “Oh.”
“I have one in the truck. Hang on.” You turned, put up a hand to shield your eyes, and felt around in the cab of the truck. Then you were facing me again, eyes closed, holding out a towel.
I hesitated.
“It’s clean. I always have one. So I can swim after work.”
“Thanks.” I reached out and took it. “You swim?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” You paused. “You looked good out there.” You flushed. “I mean, your stroke. ****. I keep doing that. Your stroke looked good.”
He thinks I look good? So maybe he does like me.
But how am I supposed to know?
“Dad taught me,” I said, trying to ignore the thoughts racing in my head. This was true. When I was a kid, I was always in the ocean with my dad. I mean always. Every evening, every weekend. I loved it, sharing his passion with him, learning from him. My mom called me her water baby—she would come too, swim with us, though she was never as fast, would get left behind, joke-cursing us.
So many of my memories of my dad have the texture of water. And they evaporated, too, like water. Dried out, leaving the ocean behind, and him washed up in front of his bugs, and me left stranded in my room, alone.
“Oh yeah,” you said. “He was a SEAL, right? That’s hard-core.”
“Was,” I said. “He’s not so hard-core these days.”
You smiled, your eyes still closed. “Yeah, he showed me his bugs. Creepy. Like, literally.”
I had finished drying myself now and quickly pulled on my clothes. “You can open your eyes now,” I said.
You did. “Truth is, I’ve had them open a crack the whole time.”
“You—”
“Kidding! Kidding.”
He is. He’s totally flirting.
“You swim a lot?” I asked, to change the subject.
You shrugged. “I was on the school team.”
“Oh! You told me. Sorry. You must be good.”
You shrugged again.
“But you left the team?”
“Huh?”
“You said you were on the school team.”
“Oh. No. I’m going to college. In the fall. On a swim scholarship actually.” You looked a little embarrassed.
“Then you must be really good.”
“Hmm,” you said. “Anyway, I’d better get going. These Angry Birds are not going to deliver themselves.”
“Okay. Thanks for the towel.”
“You’re welcome,” you said. Then, “Oh!” you added, as you put the towel away. “Hey, I forgot.” You pulled a pile of books from the footwell of the truck. “I got these for you. From the library.”