Wax ... Part 1

For the last twenty-five years, nearly everything I own has been touched in some way, shape, or form by surf wax. 

The seats of my cars have been scarred with faded scuffs of white, and the bed liners of pick-up trucks have seen the valleys of their hard black plastic ridge lines, filled with rivers of sweet-smelling wax that hardened under the summer sun when a tiny nugget of a bar had been forgotten back there. And there is the nostalgia-inducing smell of a freshly opened bar from the surf shop. I still remember the first time I smelled it. I remember being hooked and I hadn't paddled out once. I remember thinking that this smell represented my freedom. There was a sweetness to it, like someone had managed to trap the feeling of youth into this $1 bar of possibility. 

I notice now that when I smell a new bar, I'm instantly filled with gratitude that in my time on the strangest little rock in the Milky Way, I had gotten the chance to spend the better part of it, sliding without purpose over moving walls of water. And it wouldn't have been possible without this strange little substance that kept me glued to my chosen craft, that beaded up on the deck of my board and provided a canvas for my toes to dig in tight to like miniature talons. 

And so in the story that follows the great unifier is a bar of wax. 

It is the great unifier in the world of surfing. 

The rich need it.

The poor need it.

The pros need it.

The beginner needs it. 

At nearly every surf break in the world, be it a world-class wave or an uninspired beach break, that bar of wax left behind on the railing of a beach walkover, on a piling, or a park bench serves the many and not a single master. 

That wax is the start of this story and its finish. 

It's the end of the first act and the second. It's the climax and the midpoint. 

It's everything, and it becomes nothing, just as easily as the rest of us. 

I hope the story makes you want to find a solution to a problem, to create beauty where there is none, and look for life's little gifts, wherever they may melt. 

EO

Millie looked out over the dunes and watched a small crumbling wave no bigger than her knee wander lazily along the sandy point. The breeze was strong from the southeast and drew squiggly lines across the surface of the water that, until an hour ago, had been as calm as an oil slick. The lot had probably been full an hour ago, but Millie had slept in this morning, as she had done most mornings over the last two months. Her trips to the beach had become more and more infrequent since he left. It wasn't that he was the catalyst to them, she had been in love with the ocean long before he had brought his sky blue eyes into her life, it was just that like most things in life, it was nice to have someone to share them with.  

"I'm going back home," she said out loud to herself and started back up the long walkway to the parking lot. 

She chastised herself for her impatience. 

He was forever impatient, like life was permanently on fast forward, skittering from one thing to another, rarely if ever satisfied with anything, least of all her. But together and morose, often beat out alone and elated, because alone and elated meant that no one knew what had happened. So they shared their lives even when they both knew they didn't want to continue to share their lives. She felt the direction of the wind switch from a slight breeze on the side of her face to the back of her neck. Her eyes flicked to her right, and she saw the American flag in front of the showers flick the Stars and Stripes ever so slightly toward the water. The ocean seemed to respond almost immediately to its new command from the heavens above, and the ripples across the surface laid down their arms in favora more regimented and structured form of government. The breeze stiffened behind her back, and she smiled brightly. 

He wouldn't have waited for that to happen. 

A plover pecked at a cracker near her, likely dropped by an over-eager toddler who thought they could shovel the salty snack into their mouth while they navigated the path. Over her head, three pelicans zoomed past in tight formation, their wide wings stretched within inches of the one next to it, each no longer flapping, rather simply riding the air with a polished poise that can only come from instinct.

You had to be born to do that to make it look so easy. 

Millie had seen enough now and ran back to the old station wagon, a relic of a bygone era, with balding tires, chipped maroon paint, and pieces of the once chrome accents replaced by empty indentations in the skin of the car. The back window had stickers plastered over it, some from her and some from the previous owner, her older sister, who had passed the car down to her when she had made enough at her new job to buy something shiny and imported, something with bells and whistles, that required special oil changes, and featured electronics that worked far less than they were supposed to. The type of electronics that salesman raced to wow buyers with in the showroom and then dodged them six months later when they came back to complain about. 

But the wagon, still ran strong, though its odometer read 257,921, a number that most car owners never got close to,because things in life weren't built to last that long anymore. Even if they still were, who would still want them? 

Sort of like her. 

Sort of like him. 

She pulled a long yellow board from the back of the wagon that seemed to never stop coming, and laid it on the sand next to her carefully, the ten inch long single fin on the bottom pointed high into the late morning sky. The breeze intensified in her face and she felt a surge of excitement as her eyes found their way back to the ocean, where the little lines of swell were now groomed gently by the wind and marching in unison toward the shore. Millie grabbed the balled up wetsuit out of the back corner of the wagon and set about the complicated dance of pulling the suit on over her skin, complete with snapping sounds from the neoprene, grunts and pants, and two or three well timed curses.

So she had gained a couple of pounds since the last session. 

Noted. 

She lifted the board up and rested it on her head, and moved toward the walkover, feeling like the only person on the planet. Her toes found the wooden boards, and she watched a flawless wave, now lovingly groomed by the same wind that bullied it just a few minutes ago, reel down the point. She looked around her and still couldn't believe she was the only person out there. 

Then she stopped, and it hit her. 

I forgot to buy a new bar of wax. 

He always brought the wax. 

Another wave broke.

Then another. 

And another. 

And there stood Millie frozen, unable to decide what to do next. Even with the breeze, the suit felt hot pressed against her skin, squeezing it like an over-eager grandparent does a child. Her analytical mind ran through the scenarios. She could run to the local surf shop, but that was fifteen minutes away and by the time she got back the wind might have switched orthe word might find its way around and cause the point to be inundated with other surfers. She could paddle out on a skating rink slippery board and potentially waste these little moments of perfection the ocean had decided to serve up for her embroiled in frustration and aggravation. 

If she had come with him …

If … 

If …

"I don't even want to go out anymore."

A wave of dejection ran over her, an onslaught of self-pity, doubt, and despair washing over her like the tiny raindrops that now fell from the sky. She heard one plunk on the board, felt one land on her ear and another on her nose. Then she felt something wet slide down her cheek and knew that it wasn't a raindrop. Another fell, then another. She turned to head back to the wagon but saw something halfway up the walkway, that stopped her in her tracks. 

A small white rectangle. 

Maybe?

Inaction turned to hope, and she doubled her pace to the end of the boards. 

And there it was … the universe's little lifejacket.

She looked at it curiously, like it might not be real, a figment of her imagination. With the board balanced with her left hand, she reached out with her right to see if it was real. Her fingers squeezed the bar, and it didn't give. She poked her fingernail into it and watched a small depression form when she pulled it away. 

It was real. 

Millie grabbed the wax, squatted down, and with the board on her thighs, set about rubbing the bar all over the board, chalky white cris-crosses building a sticky surface for her feet. She stood up, put the other half of the bar back where she found it, and smiled. 

Then she ran as fast as she could to the ocean.