Body Surfing

Last night a memory came to mind.
In this memory, I am a teenager, piled into the back of a pickup truck, helping to hold my best friend’s hip-length hair against the wind so it won’t knot, listening to CCR blaring from the opened windows of the cab. We’re headed to Tybee Island. To the beach.
Once we arrive, there are blankets to unfold, baskets of food to station, coolers of soft drinks to position, tanning lotion to apply, and my best friend’s hair to unknot, in spite of our best efforts.
Finally, with all the preparations completed, we run into the water, salt already upon our lips as we reach waist high and then dive under the murky water and into an ethereal world where sound is muffled and time suspended.
And then the body surfing begins.
As my memory unfolded–or memories really, because there are years upon years of this–I grabbed my journal and wrote this . . .

Soaring.
Sailing.
Flying.
Riding wave upon wave.
Nothing but water
beneath me.
Beside me.
Overhead.
Sun beating down.
Salt in my veins
pulsating from my head
to my toes.

Send me up!
Send me over!
Send me forward . . .
Let the water break
crash
Let the foam mix with
laughter.
Rising.
Higher.
Rising again.
Giggles.
Sand digging into flesh.
Shells
broken
digging.
Laughter. Bodies slick
with tanning lotion and salt water. Entwining.
Do it again.
Do it again.
Pushing against the tide.
Out.
Over.
Out. Over.
Here it comes.
Another one. Ride it.
Ride it!
Soaring.
Sailing.
Flying . . .
©Eva Marie Everson