Collecting Waves

On this fine day I am collecting shells to send to that man. I sent one from another part of the world a while back and come to find out he went to that beach, or somewhere close to it.

Now, I can't honestly say that he got the first shell, I should really check under my desk or in a drawer. So I can't say his trip to the beach is related, but I'm refining my strategy and I will send him oyster shells from the beach under my window. I could use the blessing of Yemaya, the African delta goddess, and Yemaya loves oysters.

My neighbor David is sitting in our yard next to the water. He's watching sailors in thick weather gear race their bathtub boats. It's a warm day but I'll guess the splash of that water is not warm at all.

David says it's his wife who collects shells around the world. He tells me he collects waves and when I realize he is being poetic, I also realize he is talking about surfing.

My sister was the surfer in our family until she read somewhere that every single surfer has had at least one brush with a shark. She is vain and would not consider a sport that could leave her armless or legless. Now she keeps a picture of a shark in a huge wave as her screensaver and as a reminder to her sons that neither of them is allowed to surf, either.

David tells me he won a surfing contest 20 years ago in Nantucket for riding a few long curls in a headstand. He was in his 60's at the time. He'd consider surfing again, he goes on, but probably give up the headstand trick.

The thing in surfing, and in sailing, he tells me, is to listen to the nuances that carry your craft. So much like life, I think, heading as I am into a long week of interviews.

I could sit with him all day, but in flipflops, my enthusiasm for this early spring afternoon is giving way to a chill. I leave David and climb the steps remembering I must dry the shells before I mail them.