She is a stunningly attractive woman, tall, blond, built like an Amazon. She gives off a surfer chick hippie vibe, her hair bleached white in places from spending so much time in the coastal Australian sun. She has her principles. She disdains major corporations, rails against corrupt politicians, stomps for the underdog. She is vulnerable.
She lounges confidently in the rolling waves, legs astride, hands resting lightly on the buoyant, brightly painted fiberglass short board. She waits for the perfect wave, that elusive curl of ocean water that will take her all the way in on an emotionally charged adrenaline high. Not that she isn't on one now. Her easy posture belies her true cognition, churning, blazing pathways through her mind, round and round, a tilt-a-whirl of thought. Her heart has made a choice her head cannot agree with; reconciling these two vital parts of her will take all she has of time and emotional energy. She is already prune-y from the saltwater. A few more hours in the sun, wind, water will not strip too many more layers of her darkened skin; she won't miss them anyway. Her body is strong, inviolate, impenetrable... she takes pride in her strength and physical ability. It is her psycho-senses that tend toward defenselessness. She waits.
She forgot something. She cannot quite define it, but she knows where it is without doubt. Spain. Adventurous, she is, and a back-packing trip through Spain sounded perfect for her at the time. Before it happened. She shies away from that avenue of reflection, but like rising tides, it follows her in, creeping up slowly, deliberately, an inevitable, sluggish drowning. There are no rocks to shelter upon to escape the briny ocean water... her memory is vivid.
-
The port city of Malaga wasn't one of her planned stops on her trip, as it was too small and out-of-the-way, off her route to Sevilla, but an ancient, feeble man driving his old farm truck brimming with oranges along the highway had stopped to give her a lift into the nearest town. She was glad she had spontaneously hopped atop the fruits into the rear of the truck, or she would have missed it all. The town was lively, homey yet welcoming. She spent most of the morning wandering the wharf, listening to the docks creaking complainingly, the ships nudging against their moorings, impish colts testing the ropes for weakness, ready to escape out into the bay and on into the Mediterranean. Everything hopes for freedom and release. She was no different... she discovered the public beaches east of the wharf, struggled through the deep sand, and collapsed tiredly, arms and legs akimbo, her backpack a makeshift pillow. She could have been alone, all the beach bums were enjoying the warm surf and the company of others, but she wasn't. He had been swimming, it was obvious. In that familiar way Europeans have, he plopped down next to her, leaning on his hands in the sand, already discoursing in fluently speedy Spanish. Sand particles clung to his deep mahogany skin, intricately spiraling patterns radiating from each part of him touching the earth. She couldn't keep up. Uncharacteristically, she allowed herself to just listen to the rise and fall of his intonations, the rhythm of his speech luring her into somnolence. Suddenly his galloping speech slowed deliberately, three words she was able to make out clearly.
¿Te gusta paella?
Yeah, she liked paella. She had first tried the seafood, vegetable, and rice mix in Valencia, the city credited with the inspiration of the dish. The locals sure were friendly here.
He launched his body fluidly up from the sand dune, turned slightly to keep her in his gaze, and offered her a sable, sun-darkened hand to steady herself with. She looked at his face, noting the heavily forested brows, the aquiline nose, leonine wavy mane cascading over his forehead. His eyes were the color of the Mediterranean, lusciously dark blue and streaked through with indigo lightning bolts. Beautiful man. The other locals literally paled in comparison. She allowed him to lift her to her feet, and followed him off down the beach, across the boardwalk, into the chaotic bustle of the lower markets, and along a side path to his driftwood and thatched-roof hut.
He made a stellar paella. And he was quite amorous in bed.
-
She lets the memory take hold of her, storming the bastions of her defense. Her light short board bobs impatiently in the waves underneath her, but she ignores its bucking and twisting, instead finally breaking under the emotional torrent. Her defiant amber eyes blur, the tears that have waited so long to shed themselves finally making an inconvenient appearance. It's just water, she thinks. Just water... with salt. Like the ocean. Salty sea water.
It hurts less and less. The memory is vivid, the colors unlike any in the world save for human imagination, but it is softer, somehow.
She lifts her eyes to meet those of the man sitting beside her, mirroring her position on his own short board, his viking-blond hair and beginnings of a surprisingly reddish beard standing in stark contrast from the memory now fading in her mind. His sweet, boyish face searches hers intently; he wonders why her eyes suddenly filled with tears, why she hadn't taken the perfect wave that is now passing them by. She smiles tremblingly, cautiously, frightened that she might have revealed something in her face as she relived the reminiscence. His honest, brightly genuine grin explodes across his face, and she knows her walls are up again, stronger than before. A beautiful man, he is. Her heart is large enough to hold two loves, and she is glad for the life she has. Another wave approaches behind them, they simultaneously shoot each other wild, anticipatory looks, and take off after the swell. Here and now, she rides the perfect wave. Life, the perfect wave.
