I remember the first time we went out on my paddle board. It came in the mail on a too-cold day in early May, but the grass was green, and the leaves were budding under the cloudy sun. We unpackaged it in the front yard. Mom screamed from an open window in her bedroom, “Girls, it’s too cold!” Dad’s mischievous nod— “Just go.” He wanted to live it with us:
Cold water on our toes and splashing up against our shorts. Pale legs keeping balance knowing too well the gravity of falling in: shaking for months in bed. Willingly risking the sneezes and core temperatures far too low. An older couple shaking their heads on the sand. Shaking in approval of our willingness to live so innocently.
We screamed that summer. The sun came out for us. Laughter ricocheting off the waves. Leaping off my paddle board as it ran in the opposite direction. Dancing in the sun before my anklet smacked the surface shattering on impact. Beads flying in just as many directions as our arms and legs. Noises gone abstract as the water absorbed all of me. Then I buoyed back up piecing back together. That’s all it took. Shouting to strangers over boat radios all around. Asking for the time as if we cared.
We stayed out till after the sun went down. Throwing graham crackers in the green water and watching as schools of fish nibbled our toes, asking for more. Then paddling back at dusk and eating dinner with our parents in mosquito-swarmed darkness. Grilled chicken or ribs or kabobs with the best of everything. Charred on the outside and soft on the inside. Driving to Pick ‘n’ Save for ice cream, then running across illuminated asphalt while humming along with the crickets – the only song we knew. Pattering like raindrops but really just fireflies tapping on the windshield – lighting their goodbye bulbs. Bringing mint chip home to dad where he sat in his chair. The blue from his TV dancing on the walls of summer silence. We’d go to bed with brushed teeth and wet, shampooed hair pressed against warm pillowcases and fresh air blowing in from the windows of a safe house and healthy stomachs and a juvenile high, and we’d introduce the idea again the next day as if it was all new to us.
And every day it was– all new to us. The only giveaways were our bolding tan lines and bleaching hair. Freckling in every dimple and crease of our smiles. Makeup and everything besides bikinis and oversized T-shirts tossed away as if we lived in a house with no mirrors. We really believed we did. All of it was all we needed. My mom tossed out my straightening iron because I couldn’t remember to turn it off – singed bedroom carpet and heat-damaged hair. She could’ve tossed more. I wish she’d tossed more.
I must have jumped off the wrong side of the board that summer. It was the last one I lived so innocently – the last that felt so new. I still go out on my paddle board, but I don’t scream. The fish don’t nibble at my toes, and I never go out in the cold. I understand its gravity now.
