by Jennifer Maxon

Too early for the fog to lift and crowds to wake, walk alone on the beach to the channel’s edge. The air is still, salt sticks to skin. The water, cliffs, and clouds stained, shadows of blues and grays.

Across the channel, check a small steady wave worth the tiring journey.

Take off your warm flannel, flip-flops, and jeans. Hang old striped towel—a keepsake of better days at the family beach house, sold years ago —on a peg of driftwood.

Pull hard on your wetsuit. Over feet, over calves, over thighs. Suck in waist. Jam fisted hands. Tuck shoulders. Lift batwing over your head to block the cold water from flushing. Awkwardly zip dance. Fasten final collar seal.

Walk dragging your toes under the light fluffy sand until the ground hardens, marking high tide.

Study the wave. The strength of the current. The long paddle around the jetty. The best entry point. Left or right?

Scan your body. Do you feel any pain? Can you make it to the break? Can you feel the cancer? Which day of your med cycle? Is your spine safe? Will you have time to rest before you pick up your little girls?

Inhale. Feel the mist on your lips. Taste the salt. Smell the mix of decay as the shells, sand, and seaweed turn over and over.

The current is strong, but your body is stronger. Or strong enough.

Strap your longboard leash to your ankle and step into the icy Pacific. Walk slowly. Exhale. Adjust. Let the cold shock deaden. Your feet sting, then throb, then go numb. You have booties and a hood, but why suffocate more?

No one here to judge you. No children to feed. No one to worry about drowning. For these two hours, focus on this one wave. The grief of a lost future. Let go. Protecting your girls. Let go. Their first loves. Braces. Driver’s licenses. Graduations. Weddings. Let go. Imminent pain. Paralysis. Infusions. Scans. MRIs. Surgeries. Let go.

Those ghosts can stay on shore.

Position arm across the scratchy wax, adjust the board to shield the beating waves. Dig your feet into the dregs and move across the current. Right foot. Dig. Left foot. Dig. Do not float or you will be swept out to sea and must paddle back, costly energy spent.

Find relief that your feet are numb as they scrape the sharp edge of a rock. Maybe you will find blood when you return to shore. Or an empty wound, cleansed, shallow cut remains.

You make it past the current. Press your belly, thighs, and toes into the board. Arch your chest. Right arm. Glide. Left arm. Glide.

You reach the break. Sit. Let your feet hang. Steady your breath. Wipe the salt from your eyes. Feel the sun on your face. Wait for your wave.

Paddle. Push. Stand. Glide. Balance. Surrender. Fall. Repeat.

Out here, your body does what it is meant to do.

Jennifer Maxon is a landscape architect and a writer. Her work in landscape design uses site specific details, materials, and plant form to compose spaces that enrich outdoor experiences by connecting play to environment. As a writer, Jennifer focuses on creative nonfiction to discover and express beauty in brief moments and simple truths. Instagram: @carolynamaral