Paddling Out

When I first got to NJ I had to immediately go for a surf at the end of my street. It was kind of weird paddling out at first. I was getting the stinkeye from the aggro guy who lives off the island but still claims local status. He is always muttering about the summer people. I can see his point, but at the same time, I'd been swimming at this beach in utero; so I feel like I have more of a bond with it than he does. Territorial pissings aside, I was so happy to see Kris in the lineup. We laughed, shot the shizzy, and snaked each other all afternoon. The local commuter still huffed and puffed but it didn't bother me anymore.

When I left NJ I had to check the waves one last time. It was kind of bittersweet, since my mom had sold the house and it's now being torn down, and I figured it was the last time I'd be at the one place that remained a constant throughout my somewhat rootless life.

It'd been a cold (water temp-wise), windy summer. I'd had to wear a fullsuit almost every day. I wanted to go for one last surf, but the gray sky and sea suggested my time would be better-spent elsewhere. And then Kris waved to me from the water. He got out and came up to the stairs at 109 and convinced me to come out for one last surf.

I pulled my wetsuit on and paddled out. Nodding at the 110 Surf Club guy, I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at his friend, the angry local commuter. (Of course he had to be there.) Kris immediately turned to me and said he was getting out. "What? You just made me paddle out! You can't leave now." "Okay," he said, "I guess I can stay out for a few more." The four of us traded waves for the next hour. Kris and I joked and talked about some things that had been weighing on him lately. We split a tiny peak and rode it all the way in. We decided it was time to get out. I started walking toward the stairs at 109 and saw Kris walking to 110. He turned, waved, and yelled "See ya later!", knowing that I was leaving for Florida. We didn't need to hug, or even acknowledge that it'd be a while before we got to hang out again. He was the kind of friend that you just knew you'd see again.

But then I didn't get to see him again. I was back three weeks later for his memorial paddleout at the same beach. It's been six months and writing this isn't any easier. I'm glad we had that last surf. I'm glad he stayed for more than just a few waves. I tell myself I'm glad I didn't hug him goodbye; in some ways it's better to know that we left in a way that left an opening for another meeting? And sadly enough, part of me is glad that I won't be on my street this summer, checking the waves, scanning the lineup for the curly blonde head that won't be there.