The Last Wave

In terms of a favored sport there is nothing in the world quite as profoundly meaningful, to me, as one I have always done alone, sometimes feeling as though I may be the last of my kind. Which is to say I may be the last man of my age who still body surfs. Meaning alone, naked in all my primordial glory--or at least armored with only a thin layer of cloth--against the sea. I have been to every beach in North America (more or less) as well as Hawaii, China and New Zealand, and swum (yes, swum is the correct verb form!) out into every kind of surf since I was a young boy oh-so-long ago on the Jersey shore, and ridden a wave back with nary a board or other contrivance, and always, always, always, I did so alone and loved every microsecond of it.

But now, after six decades of doing this, I see a deeper meaning (no pun intended) in these all too brief moments in time, in the sea, with their flashes of ancient fear, and present excitement, and yes, sheer joy. I have skiied from the Sierras to the Alps, and loved it. I have played tennis since my twenties, and well. I have run (and hated it). I have bicycled (and still do). I've sailed (and worked that into my first thriller). I've played all the major sports and some minor ones (I still love archery, although I haven't done it practically since Robin Hood's time). But nothing I've ever done (OK, except possibly sex which is equally ancient in terms of it's origins) has ever been half so much fun as body surfing. And the best part is it's absolutely free (assuming you can access a beach and get there), you need no one and nothing at all--absolutely nothing, except your mind, your body, and the deep blue sea. And maybe a swim suit, and that not always (and you might even be parted from it in some cases).

My first experience, at age eight, was with my elder brother and parents on the Jersey shore, probably very close to where Bruce Springsteen came from, and around the same time. I grew up not far from Asbury Park in Westfield (later Morristown) and it was an easy day trip to the shore (never the beach, always the shore, which is unique to New Jersey, I know not why). I don't know who taught me. Probably my big brother Ed Ayres (now a world-renowned long distance runner and fellow author). I'm not sure he has even tried body surfing since those times himself, but since he was truly a good big brother in the best of every sense, no matter. Either Ed taught me or I taught myself. That first time out wasn't all that great, actually, but I got the hang of it quickly and loved it from the get-go. The only bad part was stepping on a deep sea fish hook that first day, and having to have it surgically removed. Ah well, it was a small price (for me at least), and worth every agonizing minute.

I went back to the shore, growing up, as often as I could. Later in high school when I had my own car I would venture further south to Surf City (the original), and Long Beach Island, and Barnegat Light. Then in college I discovered Cape Cod and the National Seashore, which was wonderful (except for the chill). Later on I moved to California, and Los Angeles, where the board-bearing locals thought I was crazy. But guess what? For every wave they rode, I rode ten. And there was never a disappointment. With body surfing wiping out is half the fun!

Here is what I think makes body surfing so basic, and natural, and beautiful, to me. Did we not originally crawl out of the sea as a primordial life form called a tetropod? (OK, if there are any biblical literalists who happen to be reading this, my apologies, but I've been body surfing for almost as long as your version of the world has existed, at least anthropologically and geologically speaking). And the fact is, we were sea creatures first, and were drawn somehow to shore in the Devonian period some four hundred million years ago, and gradually evolved to what we are now--for better or for worse. So what we're talking about here is getting back to basics. I have always felt a mystical draw to the sea and could never live far from it, although I have an innate fear of deep water, for some reason (maybe because you can drown in it?). But swimming I love, and do it well enough to survive thus far and enjoy it, but nothing compares to being at one with the ocean and all it's primal life forms--good and bad--and knowing that one's very survival means getting to shore somehow, and crawling out, literally, onto the sand, and taking a deep breath of wonder and joy that you made it. Like our antediluvian ancestors so long ago did.

OK, so you can't do it naked any more in most places. But you can in some. And of course there are other considerations, like getting your testicles somewhat smashed, and every orifice filled with sand, so that thin layer of cloth over one's nether regions might serve some purpose in case you get crushed and ground into veritable sand--at least for us male mammalian life forms. It's worth it. Being carried on a wave of water and deposited on the sand by giant ocean waves is like being born all over again, over and over. (For the record, most waves are in the eight foot range, which is about right for yours truly. Those don't crush you too badly, most of the time, just enough to remind you of who's really in charge in the natural world).

And so, being in Florida at the moment I went in search of a beach again this past weekend, to reconnect with my inner tetropod. I seldom get to go any more--maybe once every two years. And I can't stay long because now I am prone to skin cancer and that sun is still one very hot star. But a half hour or so is enough to get in a dozen or two rides. And every one is an orgasmic rush of pure joy like none other I have ever felt. For those few moments each time, riding a wave up onto the beach where I am left stranded and gasping on the sand (or most recently, crushed sea shells at MacArthur Park in Florida's North Palm Beach), I am one with nature, and the entire universe in a vast liquid microcosm, and the only difference between me and those sea creatures who keep crawling towards a brighter future is that I turn around (at least until I am exhausted) and go back for more.