Into the Swell by Mel Wells
“All I tasted was salt.”
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When I moved from the high desert plains of southeastern Idaho to the lush Pacific Northwest, at first the rain was lovely. The sound of it on the roof made our tilted old bungalow feel cozy instead of structurally unsound; it blurred my bedroom window so the parking lot of the lesbian bar next door was a neon impressionist painting. And the ferns! Like living in Jurassic Park, sans dinosaurs. Then I biked to work.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the bathroom, shoes squelching, where I used the hand-dryer on my bra so that it wouldn’t bloom patches of damp on my fresh, dry shirt that I’d stuffed into a (thankfully waterproof) backpack. That afternoon, I bought an ugly plastic jacket. The next day I packed an extra pair of shoes. The next week, I bought wool gloves. Thus armed, I learned to bike, hike, and jog in the rain. Then I learned to surf.
One month after my thirtieth birthday I was vacationing on the coast of Oregon. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon in October and the thermometer said 52 degrees Fahrenheit. I’d just gone through a heinous breakup, involving the discovery I’d been cheated on for months, and was feeling reckless. Why not throw myself into the ocean?
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My earliest memory is of learning to swim. I was three years old, so my mom didn’t believe it was a real memory until I described the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the pool at our apartment complex in Sacramento. More distinct is the tightness of the water wings on my arms, the scratch of their seam on my tiny biceps, and how the black drain at the bottom seemed miles away. It felt like flying.
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Ossie’s surf shop was empty on the day I went in for lessons. I have no idea what the conditions were like that afternoon; I didn’t know then that waves can be anywhere between two and twenty feet high on the Oregon coast, or the benefits of offshore vs. onshore winds. I just knew that when I asked if the lanky, bearded man behind the counter could teach a beginner that day, he said yes.
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New York Magazine ran a story in July 2015 about the pressure college students and recent graduates feel to appear happy. All seven interviewees were female. Later that month the New York Times covered the immense pressure on female students to be “effortlessly perfect,” i.e. to be everything to everyone, without appearing to try. In the novel Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn’s character refers to the “Cool Girl” as “basically the girl who likes every fucking thing and doesn’t ever complain.”
When my cheating ex and I broke up, I felt guilty and ashamed, as though his indiscretions were my fault. Our relationship had already been rocky because, as he said, I was “difficult to be around.” When I was happy, he found my goofy joy infectious and fun, but when I felt sad or anxious, he pulled away.
After the breakup I continued isolating myself when I wasn’t feeling on top of my game, which only compounded the feeling of being a loser. Even when I began dating again, if I wasn’t feeling like my best self, I would make excuses to stay home alone, deeply ashamed of my inability to be upbeat.
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As a kid, I spent most summer days on the banks of American Falls Reservoir with my mom’s side of our family. My cousins and I, after getting smeared in sunscreen, built muddy sand castles and floated on pool toys while the adults boated.
I felt a mix of excitement and nerves watching my mom jump-start: she stood knee-deep in the water, the handle in one gloved hand and a loop of tow rope in the other as the boat idled away. She called “Hit it!” and the motor roared to life. When the rope went taught, her arm muscles flexed and she stepped up onto the ski as the wake spread, leaning back and sliding one foot into the rear foot binding. Her hair would still be dry when she finally came back, the boat zipping by as she swung out from behind it, skiing nearly up onto the beach.
As soon as the grandkids were old enough, we took turns riding in the back of the boat as a spotter, communicating the skier or kneeboarder’s hand signals to the driver. Thumbs up meant go faster; thumbs down meant go slower; one finger held up and circled meant go back; and a flat hand sliced across the neck meant I’m done and was usually followed by a dramatic toss of the handle.
“They let go!” we’d yell over the engine’s roar, and the driver would flip around to pick them up as we held up the orange flag, gripping with both hands as it snapped and fluttered in the wind.
I loved spotting for the slalom skiers, who touched their elbows to the water as they cut, sending up sprays that caught rainbows. My aunt would do 360s on the kneeboard, catching air as she jumped the wake. But Grandpa was my favorite. He used wide wooden skis and a bright orange vinyl Cut ‘n’ Jump life jacket that was vintage even in the nineties. He would arc hard back and forth across the wake as quickly as possible, knees bouncing over the waves, letting go with his outside hand to swing out beside the boat. Sometimes it seemed he was going to pass us. Us grandkids would sit in the back, squealing and giggling as the boat fishtailed with his wide sweep.
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Surfing in Oregon requires a three- to five-millimeter thick wetsuit. Putting it on felt like stuffing my body into sausage casing. The neoprene smelled like brine and petroleum with a hint of sweat, and my nerves jittered as I yanked and shimmied into it. I also put on thick gloves, booties, and a tight hood with a small brim. When finally suited up in all-black neoprene, I felt like a ninja.
My surf instructor and I carried a twelve-foot board across the street and onto the beach. We paused in the sand, where he taught me how to “pop up” from my stomach to my feet. Despite the wind and rain, I began to sweat a little as I pushed up from the sand and hopped to my feet. My arm muscles were already burning.
When we waded into the icy water, I was surprised that it didn’t feel cold. The ocean’s waves were about the same height as a motorboat’s wake, but the force they carried made me stumble. The drop was gradual and we went in about waist-deep before he said, “Okay, get on!”
I laid on my stomach on the soft foam top, feeling the board threaten to capsize me as a wave rolled underneath. The ocean roared. What was I doing out here?
“Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!” my instructor yelled.
I used both arms, holding my fingers tightly together like I did doing laps in a pool. It felt like I was flailing until suddenly the board shot forward. I gripped the sides and stumbled to my feet—not quite the “pop” I’d hoped for—but then I was on my feet, soaring forward across the dark, foamy water. Instead of being pulled, the force was pushing me from behind, propelling me, arms spread, manic laughter pushing up and out of my chest. I was flying.
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My grandpa died recently after a bout with colorectal cancer. The only place I could let myself cry was in the ocean, after I’d paddled out beyond the breakers to sit on my longboard, the surf loud enough to cover my sobs. All I tasted was salt.
During one afternoon of this, I accidentally paddled into the path of a huge wave. It rose like a dark wall, lifting me halfway up its face and, as I skidded down and tried to find my footing, it crashed down over my head, knocking me off my board and pulling me underwater. As I spun in the ocean’s washing machine for what felt like forever, I began to panic. What if I never surface? I kicked and flailed my arms. Suddenly the leash--a plastic rope attaching my ankle to the board--wrapped halfway around my neck, throttling me. My panic ratcheted up. What if I drown? I was completely overwhelmed by the force of the water, lungs burning, heart pounding, but I managed to spin and grab the leash. I held on. Stopped flailing. Stopped spinning. I opened my eyes to see a spectrum of blue and rising bubbles. The surface was just above me. I swam.
I stumbled up the beach, breathing hard, and dropped my board and my ass in the sand. I pulled my hood down, water dripping off my hair and beading on the black neoprene as I watched the waves churn. They were not actually big enough to drown me; I’d just caught one that was beyond my abilities. Then one of those rare blooms of epiphany unfurled inside me, and something my head already knew finally, finally got into my guts, too.
Grief would not kill me. Sadness would not kill me. Anxiety, loneliness, and discouragement could all knock me off my feet and spin me, upend my sense of direction, wrap their tentacles around my neck and make me feel as though I am going to die, but these emotions were not Mavericks-level monsters either. If I just held my breath for another minute, stopped flailing and panicking, and focused on which direction was up, I would surface every time, coughing and sputtering, a little breathless and waterlogged, but alive.
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Header image courtesy of Angela Buron. To view a feature on her photography, go here.
Mel Wells is a writer, surfer, and doodler whose most recent project can be found here. She has been published in Salamander, Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, and the anthologies Spent (Seal Press 2014) and Untangling the Knot (Ooligan Press 2015). Wells also received a RACC grant in 2015 and was a writer-in-residence at Dickinson House in Belgium.