LE PORTRAIT MAGAZINE MARCH-SEPTEMBER ISSUE | Page 37

“I want to go back in now,” I said, in a voice alien to my own ears.
“Then you better pick a better wave,” came an equally otherworldly
voice. Jeff was nowhere to be seen, but a bearded, naked sage was
floating belly-up nearby, as if we were in a calm lake.
He wasn’t afraid. I had only just started rock climbing then, but the glint
in this man’s eye and the sinew on his limbs reminded me of the guys
who had gotten me started. I trusted this old sea turtle like I trusted those
old desert rats. These were the men of any age I found attractive. Not the
ones who preached about nonviolent communication and created safe
spaces into which their celebrated sexuality could ooze, but the ones
who knew how to stay safe in spaces that really weren’t.
“This is a good one,” nodded the naked old man, blithely stroking
further out to sea. I swam into the swell. It lifted me up and hurled me
shoreward, forcing me headfirst into a gravel trench. I stabbed a foot in
front of me, clawed my way up the sand and outran the Pacific’s
frothing jaws.
Once clear of the waves, I hunched over, gasping and choking, then
straightened up, wiped my nose, and shucked my shorts. I no longer
cared if Jeff, or any of these Hawaiian hippies, saw me