This morning, I clomped into the Pacific Ocean, somewhere between Monterey and Santa Cruz. Clomped is the only appropriate onomatopoeia for what I did. “Ran” would imply speed. “Pranced” would imply gracefulness. No, I clomped. It’s because I didn’t slow down to wade into the water once it reached my thighs, like a normal and aerodynamic person. I knew that if I slowed my velocity, the cold would reach my brain quicker, (I took a few science classes in my day), and there was a chance I’d end up chickening out. And I really, really wanted to dunk my head and freeze time for a few seconds, (this is one of Newton’s laws), and feel that rush of adrenaline. So, much like a duck, I was high-kneeing it into the ocean, feet sometimes even surfacing before plunging back into the sandy depths. I looked ~ridiculous.~ But it got me in, and before long, a wave that I could dive into came along.
It was so shockingly cold, but I felt alive. My hair clung to my cheeks and arms, my cotton running shorts stuck to my legs, and my abdomen was tight and prickly, stinging red. Just prior to this, I had returned from my jog in the light rain— and then had done a tiny bit of yoga on the hard sand, which had sufficiently cooled me down already. So it wasn’t really an ideal moment for this kind of “refresher,” except that it felt right. I thought I was going to high-tail it back to the condo after I’d gone under the waves, but instead, I turned back around to face the ocean, still waist-deep. Maybe I wanted to go again? I wasn’t really sure, but something was keeping me in. And then I thought, Mom’s watching. She’s smiling and watching. And she wants me to give ‘em holy hell today. So I stood there, freezing my tootsies (toes, per my mother) off, and started yelling as loud as I could at the sea. There was no one on the beach yet— though I doubt with the waves crashing, anyone would have heard me anyway. So I really screamed, and it was joyous. I know this sounds a little bit woo woo, but it felt like the words were coming straight from her. I didn’t even know I had anything to say to the universe, until I was reading it the riot act in the midst of my November baptism. And it wasn’t actually an angry lecture whatsoever. It was max volume, yes, and I probably looked a little bit feral while I was doing it— but the message was more to the tune of, “I've got this.” My Mom’s got me, so I’ve got this. I dunked myself fully one more time— one for me, one for her— and then traipsed back toward dry land to collect my keys, and the layers I’d peeled off pre-dip. I’d donned a long-sleeve, pink and maroon, paisley running shirt that morning, which is just one of about 50 with which my mom had graced the race courses. My Dad, Steven, and I, like to picture her running. Full speed, wind in her hair, and a smile on her face— the kind that couldn’t even be helped if she tried— because she is so, freakin’, free. And I think that's what she wanted me to feel today.
4 Comments
|
Archives
October 2023
|