circumplect
“You musn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”
We woke to bells ringing—the clatter like dishes over breakfast—toast with butter and a bit of honey. I need a little sweetness to keep me honest, especially in the waking hours.
The bells are from the clerk downstairs. She walks the hallways with a handful of chimes to wake us. We each sleep in a room with a wooden door. I peeped into the neighbors, and the layout of each boudoir was the same: a small studio with a desk, bed, armoire, coffee table and sitting area built into the brick. The cushions have been cut to fit into the wall and stone podium. My room is teal; my neighbor's gold. The rooms across the hall are purple, rose, and orange, respectively. I’m content with blue. It’s calming and not as obtuse as the sunlight tones.
Once we are up and sated, we’re called to use the toilet before zipping into the wetsuits. I use the washroom in my studio and brush my teeth. When you’re riding the tide, there’s no sense in a dirty mouth. I don’t need honey mixed with salt and sand. I’d rather be reading than surfing, though Ellen tells me the best way to understand a place is to participate in its customs. Tourists arrive from all over Europe to test the Tagazhout surf. Is it customary—I don’t think so, though it would be a travesty to miss out on such an acclaimed event.
I’m not a strong swimmer, a detail I do not share with the group. We dress quickly with our boards to the water. The instructor has us place our boards in the sand with the fin to the side. We lay on our bellies in the sand and practice arching our backs and paddling, face up, legs extended, feet pointed away from the sea. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Pulling the imaginary waves with our palms. The key is to jump up before the swell surfaces behind you so you’ve risen once the wave crests and falls. The instructor blows a whistle and we put our palms on the ground and leap upright.
Faster! You must press down evenly with both hands, so you don’t tip the board to one side. If you cannot jump, kneel. The back foot first, then rise and stand with your feet wide. Just like that, just so. Take your arms wide; it will help with balance.
Our guide is a small girl with pigtails and red shoes. Her whistle is silver and she wears it on a bracelet at her wrist when it's not in her mouth. Her eyebrows are uneven. I don’t react to the height of the waves, though I find the arc of her brow unnerving.
We wade out into the water with our boards tethered to an ankle. The water is cold; it’s cloudy. Did I say that? The air is thick and the sky hangs low as a pregnant belly. The little yellow fish slipped between my knees. As we practiced, we lay on our bellies and paddle, paddle past the white ripples until we could not see the bottom. Keeping my arms wide, I sweep the water as I do the studio floor. Wide arcs from side to side. I feel clean. Shivering, I press my pubic bone and toes to the board and paddle harder until I feel sweat forming at my upper lip. I taste salt and honey.
I sit up on my board to wait for the waves. The waves move up and inward; I listen with my hands in the water, feeling the ocean’s pull. Precision is formed through repetition; it takes a lot of self-discipline to do the same action time and time again until the movement is just so. Accuracy and alignment; my back burns with each take. Its magnetism is contagious, and I get a little better each time I meet the lip of the wave. Less strong and more agile. As the sun rises, gently folding me in its warmth, I become tired and rely on my senses to encourage the next phase. I listen with my fingertips and toes, tapping in the water before slapping the board. I stay on a bent knee, too timid to stand.
Ascension is not as easy as falling. However, the difficulty lies not in rising to the occasion but in sustaining momentum. Once I fall, I need to know how to get back up. Rejection can release you from the demand of others; who do you create for and what is the risk of revival? I will not rise from a bent knee; I'm too fearful of the unknown lurking beneath my feet. My tepid stance in the waves reflects my insistence in life, tepid and withdrawn. My action is fuelled by half a heart.
I vow to speak from a space of authenticity.
A family of women clad in blue headdresses ambles by and the cerulean tunics remind me of a purity I feel and never taste. The thing that writhes inside of me stays too low in my belly; it grazes the tertiary of the heart space and it's too close to bear, so I stuff it back down. I zip faster; arms spread wide and palms facing the sea. A shin and sole keep me anchored to the board and when I slow to the rhythm of the tide, I lay down and paddle, paddle, paddle. Maneuvering myself around and back out to the depths where I cannot see what is above or beneath me. The fog has settled in and the water is coated in a soft white residue. I cannot see the sun or the moon. I know my place by the tips of my toes in the water. I like my lips and taste the scorn of my mother. Keep paddling.
The instructor bids us back to shore and I ignore her. I want so deeply my body boils. I can no longer feel my forearms. My muscles have burst with energy and are fatigued by the repeated action of beating the water. The whistle sounds, one sharp cry into the misty halo and I look around: I am the only one out here in the wide world.
A little creature cackles and I cock my head, listening. Now is not the time, the creature says. Wait. If a fly were to land I would let it rest. If a mosquito appeared, I would let it sip at my life force. Suck vitality; I would present myself on this salty platter. Wait. Too many musicians have died listening to their own songs. I lean into the rock of the ocean and whisper to it with a baked throat. The shrill call of the instructor: two sharp blasts on the silver whistle.
What does anger taste like? Coffee. And sadness? Honey. And joy? Milk.
The immediacy of this aloneness catches my cravings off guard and for a brief movement, I realize there is nothing I hope for. My body is this empty vessel filled with the ocean, water and sand. The sun. Resplendent with the elements, I’ve opened and split like the rainbow after it rains. Begging for forgiveness, no—there is nothing to forgive. That is one story I will forbid in my being. I am not ashamed of being. I am not bearing the guilt of living.
Where I look is where I am going; do not look backward, only forward.
I cock my head and listen to the waves. The whistle. The churning of angst in my bowels. When is the time? Wait. Wait a little longer; the creature sucks silently. It offers nothing but its advice. Is that enough? What action arises from its insistence? Instinct; I hear you.
The creature tumbles and whirls. It is happy. I am listening, perhaps for the first time, to its knock. I didn’t know how to appreciate the things that were this close to me. The sky weighs down and its lightness is the mist on my palms and the blue water. I am coated by dust and dew. This slippage between past and present points at my inability to stay in one place for too long. I move into the past to evade the present. My heart cannot handle what I seek; stop seeking.
Cocked head—listen. The water moves in tandem with the sun. Clouds lift and reveal their sparkle. One clean line that beats down and breaks against the surface. The shards of light reflect the faces of the Goddess. I am there, awash in green and gold. I stick out my tongue to taste the inevitability; I must move at some point and for this understanding, I am awarded by sadness.
What does it take to move forward? Everything I am is here and now, and to move past the point where I am is to leave it all behind. Don’t look back; never turn away from what lies ahead, even if you cannot see what is underneath. What trust and despair; this art of living!
The creature calls and I instantly know what to do. I kneel on the board and follow the rhythm of each wave, side to side. I unzip the wetsuit and strip all that is underneath. Naked and unabashed. I am green and gold. I toss my garments to the sea and the whistle calls. Three times. The people are a speck of turquoise in the yellow sands. Time spread out like the tail features of some exotic bird. The instructor jumps, a tick on a leaf.
When the wave rises, I am ready. Paddle, paddle, paddle. I close my eyes; the glare is too grand. Ambrosia and shards of glass. There is no board or body; it is all water and wetness. My feet find the ribbed edges of the board as the things I call hands slap the hardness. The texture of belonging. Hard and soft: I exist somewhere in between.
As I rise, the whistle calls four times. I surface in the silence, crown high.
Photo source.
