Wet

by Johanna Stein

I grew up in the land-locked prairies of Canada, where, for one-half of the year I wore a snowsuit over skin so dry and flaky I had dandruff in my pants; where from sun-up to sun-down I existed in breadbox-sized snow boots that held gargoyle-like feet so gnarled and hideous that merely glancing at them would cause my older brothers to shudder; where the only time salt met water was when we boiled up a pot of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

And yet in spite of my land-locked childhood - or perhaps because of it - I was obsessed with the ocean. I wanted to see it, touch it, taste it, stick my face in it. Other girls worshipped Patrick Swayze and Rob Lowe. Not me. The way a man wants a woman, the way a sock wants a foot, that’s how I wanted the sea.

Sadly, our relationship was nonexistent. Every summer our family took a three-day drive to Palm Springs, California to visit my Grandma Rose. We’d stay for weeks, waking every morning with our sun-stroked eyelids glued together from the intense heat of the sun, the soles of our feet burnt from sprinting across hot pavement.

Do you know what it feels like to be mocked by the desert? I do. Because every summer I’d spend mile-after-mile of that three-day drive begging my parents if we could pleeeeeease take a quick detour to the coast so that I could satisfy my oceanic desires. And every year my mom would laugh and say, “Don’t be ridiculous. And quit wiping your boogers on the armrest, I can see you back there.”

And then. The year I turned 16 my parents ditched the road trip, and instead put me and my best friend Jacquie on a plane to Palm Springs. There I talked my sweet, gullible grandmother into sending Jacquie and me on a two-day side-trip by Greyhound to Long Beach, where we would stay with my Uncle Morrie and Aunt Sylvia who lived a mere mile from that Long aforementioned Beach.

Eight minutes after arriving at their house, Jacquie and I threw on our matching one-piece bathing suits (neon green, one-shouldered; it was the 80s) and set out for the beach where I planned to baptize my crusty toes in the salty surf. But that’s when we were intercepted by Sheldon - my 16-year-old cousin twice removed - asking, did we want to take a ride in his friend Dino’s speed-boat?

I was terrified, for two reasons: 1) I had never in my life been in a speedboat; and 2) I had not yet shaved my legs. (Ever.) But it seemed too promising an offer to pass up. Also Dino, it turned out, bore a striking resemblance to Patrick Swayze. So we climbed into a car, which took us to a marina, which led us to a boat, which was floating on the Pacific fucking Ocean. Which, it turns out, is incredibly big. And I would have liked to have spent a few moments forming some more unique opinions, but there was no time for that as we were off and running/boating.

Sheldon and Dino took turns driving and hot-dogging, and then the water-skis came out. The guys each took a spin, then asked if we’d like to try. Jacquie, a natural-born athlete, jumped in the water, and though she’d never done it before, within minutes was waterskiing gracefully, looking like Fonzie about to jump a shark.

Then came my turn, which is when I found myself floating in salt water, wearing a too-big life-vest on my too-small flat-chest, and my thick, fuzzy legs trapped in waterski bindings.

The boat pulled away slowly, dragging me face-first through the water, causing me to drop the rope. I was weak and uncoordinated, not athletic like Jacquie. (The only sport I was any good at was curling, and everybody knows that’s barely a sport.)

The boat circled around. The rope was thrown back to me. More dragging and tow-rope dropping. My eyes and throat burning from the salt water. This is not my beautiful ocean experience. For god’s sake, all I wanted was to dip a gnarled toe!

I shouted to my captors that I was done. But they had other ideas.

The boat circled back. The rope was tossed. It was expected that I make one more attempt. At least I think that’s what they meant when they yelled, “GIVE ‘ER!”

Cold and tired, I threw a feeble punch at the water, so frustrated that my inaugural ocean toe-dipping had been stolen from me, and that the memory of my first time would forever be connected with these water-logged feelings of failure and shame.

As the boat pulled away I grabbed the tow rope and gave it an angry yank. Which caused me to lean back… way, way back… and suddenly, improbably I was up! Vertical, legs quaking against the full force of the Pacific. There I was, standing and flying and dancing and conquering this beautiful body of HOLY MOTHER OF GOD I hit a wave, lost the skis, fell onto the smooth-as-glass waters, but without dropping the rope. No, I was still water-skiing, not on the skis, not on my face, but on my lady parts… all of my lady parts.

The ocean was having its way with me, and after what felt like 60 minutes of 400 pounds per square inch of salt-water being sprayed like a firehose inside of me, the boat slowed down and came to a stop.

Salt water poured out of my eyes and nose and mouth and every other orifice I never knew I possessed. I had just experienced a head-to-toe, Massengil douching of my body and soul. And yet I was elated. Because for a shining (though I’ll be honest, somewhat uncomfortable) moment I had become one with the sea.

As I climbed back into the boat I noted Sheldon’s hand on Jacquie’s athletic knee. That’s kids’ stuff, I thought to myself. Try having your cherry popped by the Pacific.

That same thought crossed my mind two hours later as I was being felt up by Dino. Sure, he can have that part of me, but he will never have my soul. The ocean is my first love. I belong to the sea.