Great Short Story

One More Wave .....

ONE MORE WAVE by Rebecca Heller My arms are tired and my lips are dry. We’ve been surfing for a couple hours. It’s getting dark and I’m getting hungry. I call over to my friend, Shelly, “One more and I’m going in.” She nods at me, the sun is slipping behind Point Dume painting the sky a bright red. Sailor’s delight. Shelly picks up a wave and rides it in. I cheer for her, good ride. I look out to the horizon. Flat. I stretch out my back and jump in the water to get the hair off my face. I sit back on my board looking out, the wind is picking up but still no waves. The salt stings my eyes; I can feel it sticking to my eyelashes and my eyebrows. I look into shore. On the beach, Shelly wraps her leash around her board. I look back out towards the horizon. Nothing. I have time to think. My mind wanders over the day. Some good, some bad. Everything seems less urgent, less important out here. The day seems removed, like I was looking at someone else’s life, everything in perspective. I think about him. He’s across this ocean. It’s earlier there. He’s probably still in the middle of his day, still busy, still at work. I think about paddling in. I know I can’t. Some silly, stubborn surfer rule that I have internalized. I’ll wait. The wind creates chop on the water. I see what I think is a wave and paddle for it hard. Just some wind swell, it dies out as it passes me. I look into shore, Shelly has her board on her car, she’s peeling off her wetsuit and changing into something warm. I shiver, it’s getting darker. I see something. I paddle over, paddle hard. I feel the wave catch my board. I jump to my feet. My leash tangles around my ankles and I go down. The wave kicks me around under water, not hard, just reminding me whose boss. I come up for air mad at myself for missing the opportunity. I paddle back out. “One more wave” has made many a surfer late to work, school, dates, appointments. We’ve amassed parking tickets and been scolded by loved ones by simply not paddling in. Things that seem important when your feet touch the sand, things that are important. But out in the water it’s all about, selfishly about, you. Man and water; man and nature. How hard, how big, how long can you go? I peer out. Still nothing. I pick at the wax on my board. A piece of seaweed floats into my hand and start playing with it. Shelly’s dressed. She’s in her car waiting on me. She won’t be angry, as a surfer she understands. I see something. A wave. A set. I calm myself. Pick the right one. I let the first wave go by and paddle into the second. The chop splashes drops of water onto my face. I paddle harder. The wave picks me up. I’m on my feet; I’m flying. I cruise along the face and the wave breaks in front of me. I crouch down to get around the white water and do. I’m on the inside. The wind is cold on my wet hair. I jump off just as my board gets tumbled in the beach break. I pick up my board and step onto shore.