Washed Up

Riptide

Riley

Riptide. [rip-tahyd]. A tide that opposes another or other tides, causing a violent disturbance in the sea.

All through high school and college, in every school and state I ever lived in, I always swam. It was my escape. In high school, I was on the varsity swim team. In college, I went to the regional conference for the back stroke. I sucked at everything else in life, but when I got into the tepid pool water and cut through it like nothing could stop me, I was extraordinary.

The nasty girls in my classes would always call me "that Army brat who can swim" which I guess is better than just "that Army brat." No matter what city we lived in, there was always a swimming pool and I could always dive into the cool water and leave my dark thoughts and fears behind me. Something about the rhythmic movement of my arms and legs pumping in unison stilled my mind and let me focus on one simple thing. Swimming.

Last night, I got out of girl talk with Lucy by saying that I was tired at 8:00 P.M. That definitely made waking up at six this morning significantly easier. I figure that if this summer isn't going to be a total waste of time, I might as well get my head in the right space with a swim. Merry Gene scheduled me for a shift at the pizza shop starting at noon which gives me time to put on my suit, head to the beach, swim a mile or so, and make it back in time to slave over the hot ovens in the kitchen. I haven't told her yet that I'm a horrific cook, but I figure she'll learn soon enough.

I slip out of my sheets on the lower bunk and clamber to my feet, tripping over my bag and making the floor creak. I sneak a glance up at Lucy on the top bunk--did I wake her up?

"Earnest--no!" she groans, rolling over. "Stop talking...about the Pythagorean theorem!" Another groan. "Let's...let's make out instead."

I cover my mouth to stifle my laugh--I'll have to ask Lucy about this later. I don't think I've ever heard the words "Pythagorean theorem" in the same sentence as "let's make out." I squat on the floor next to the bed and rifle through my bag until I find my bathing suit and a clean tank top and shorts. Then I sneak off the bathroom.

The tiny second-floor home is silent this early in the morning except for the ocean winds rattling the cedar shingles outside the window. The floor creaks a few times as I tiptoe to the bathroom, but no one rouses. The bathroom looks like it hasn't been renovated since the 80s with pink tiles on the wall and peeling linoleum. I change into my one-piece quickly, making sure I don't have a wedgie before I pull on my shorts and tank top. Even though I've detested this summer since I heard I was going to be sent to exile here, I'm still kind of excited to see the beach for the first time. We've lived a lot of places, but it's been a decade since I've seen the Atlantic Ocean, and I've never swam in anything but a pool before. My muscles yearn to give it a try.

I pull on flip-flops and pad softly down the hallway. In the kitchen, I leave a sticky note for the Covingtons to tell them I went down to the beach and I'll be back soon. Luckily, my parents didn't include an ankle monitor as part of my probation sentence, so I have a little bit of freedom.

I climb down the stairs and leave through the back entrance to the pizza shop, breathing in the salty air and tasting this new sense of freedom. Unlike yesterday afternoon, today Long Beach Island is sleepy and quiet. I see a few ambitious runners on the sidewalk with headphones in, but they ignore me. I can't imagine wanting to have headphones in when you could listen to the lapping of the waves and the seagulls chirping instead.

I cross the empty street and head for the beach. When I crest the top of the sand dune and see the ocean, I catch my breath. I've seen oceans in Europe and Asia and South America, but every single time, they take my breath away. My eyes trace the long coastline and the foaming waves that break onto the sandy beaches. I study the oscillating waters and the various colors that play across the surface--blues, greens, blacks--and the warm reflection of the morning sun on the water. I can see no one for miles except for an empty lifeguard stand an abandoned beach chair. It's just me.