We took a roadtrip to the beach and even in that daylong getaway, I remembered what it means to travel. I also put my body in the Pacific Ocean for the first time since we’ve moved here and remembered why I love the ocean. The salt water buoyancy and the unknown. I mean, I’m not a fan of sharks. Jaws seriously messed up many many otherwise blissful summer swims (damn you, Peter Benchley, Steven Spielberg), but overall the sense of floating and looking out and out and out and there’s no end. Like you’re just alone in it all.

We drove to Seal Beach and Long Beach (hi, Mary! We didn’t ring you. Waiting til Covid moves on for a proper visit). I used to live in Long Beach when I want to the Cal State Uni there. I had an apartment on the beach and damn if you wouldn’t think that I’d have spent more time actually going into the ocean given I lived steps away. But I didn’t. Not even once that I can remember. First off, the kind of beach girl I fancied myself back then was a peasant bloused, gauze skirted, bells around my ankle kind of hippie chick who went to bonfires at night where boys played guitars (I don’t know why girls didn’t play guitars. Maybe they did. Maybe even my memories are gender stilted. ANyhoo.). The boys played guitar, they wore puka shells and hooded woven ponchos. They knew “Stairway to Heaven.” That was my beach. But no night swimming (damn you again, Peter Benchley/Steven Spielberg), altho besides the sharks it was probably for the best since I might have been stoned. But here’s the other thing. That whole scenario described above? I maybe did that once. By the time I lived in Long Beach, I was into a different scene. One that included imported UK bands like Echo and the Bunnymen, clubs in LA, and the like. So there you have it. Memories are tricksters.

As Dennis and I walked down Ocean Blvd, where my apartment had been, I looked mightily to find it. Figured I might have a pang of “here, this was it.” But nothing. In fact my friend Mary and I had been on a similar search for the apartment this last February, and again, nothing. As I remember the place, there was a large expanse of green lawn in front of the building. The windows faced the ocean. The apartment was on the second floor. I also have a very vivid memory of when, during the signing of the lease, a jogger was running by and collapsed. The landlord ran down to help him, but when the ambulance arrived, they discovered he’d died from a clot passing through his lungs. Yes, I remember that vividly (also that my boyfriend at the time’s car was stolen while we lived there). But walking up (& down) Ocean Blvd, there was no sign of a front lawn, just apartment houses pushed right up onto the sidewalk. Maybe they tore the place down. Maybe there was no lawn. Perhaps it was those memory jokers again. The ones that apparently embellish and move the furniture around in my life story. Thank gawd I write fiction.

After completing that search, we went down to the ocean and I walked in. Damn it felt good. No waves. No bonfire. No “Stairway to Heaven.” Fine. It’s a new day. We moved on to Seal Beach where there are waves. Big ones with surfers climbing on, riding in, jumping off, falling off. I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf. Okay, that’s a lie. The surfing thing didn’t happen until I was in New York because, again, there’s that moment where what’s furthest away is the thing I want. So funny. I’d see people on the A train going out to the Rockaways to surf and think, me too. There’s no denying that water (ocean, pond, river, kiddie pool on the back patio) is my happy place. Standing at the edge of the big waves I watched how people approached them. There were the ones who ran straight in. The ones who walked in, saw a big wave coming, turned around and ran out. The ones who stood their ground and got knocked down. The ones who executed the dive through. I recognize all these moves. I do them daily (you are not wrong if you think I’m going to use this scene as a metaphor for life). As a baby person, I have a memory (?!right?) of having my mom on one side and my dad on the other and being walked into the ocean. It’s not where I learned to swim, but where I learned to stand in the face of resistance and pull. Something might knock me down, something might suck my feet deep into the sand. Could go either way and often went both. I’ve obviously done all the run in, run away, fall over, gasp for air, learn the dive through, get hit by another immediately upon surfacing. Tumble, think I might die, come to the surface. Get out.

I’m not going to lie to you. Right now, living in this time, in this country, with this much going on, the ocean as metaphor is strong in my mind. The dive through has become my go-to, although I also need to pick some waves to commit to and ride in on, even if I crash on the sand. Surfing would be handy too, but I haven’t got that skill presently. The point: I cannot in good conscience merely dive through the problems if I can be active and ride them out for awhile. Currently, ActBlue: Flip the Senate is a wave I’m riding. As well as my weekly WP4BL moments. I also know that everything changes and this is a time to be aware of the waves. To stand in the face of them and not turn away. Know that messages in the sand will get washed away and new ones will be etched in. Do what I can to read them while they’re there.

Cowabunga.