Beach girl

I spend two weeks at the beach and in that time my lifelong suspicion towards the water tightens into a ball of wiry dislike. Gummy in my mouth, spat onto the cement. Yes, the ocean is like a metal plate, like my grandmother’s left eye, like a bubble bath. Yes, the ocean is like a washing machine, like darkest romance, like a parking lot reflected back. A typically ugly girl, I despise its effortless beauty with all my might. I cling to the surfboard, saltwater gurgling powerfully around my feet and legs. I appeal, a little panicked, to Poseidon’s better nature. A typically insecure girl, my immediate reaction to danger is to placate the aggressor. I say: This is unnecessary. To destroy me, you only need to grow old with me. The waves meet me where I am and respond, cheerfully, with all the straightforwardness of the truly self-assured: Never. This is a place you do not belong. This is not a place where you will be wanted and loved. Come out further than waist deep and see. I meet a…