The Surf Called and Then It Didn't

by Kenneth Kapp

In Long Beach there were days in October when the ocean pretended that no one was looking, sending waves one after another to crash into the shore. Running smoothly, they unfurled their crests from one rock jetty to the next. The inshore wind blew foam on ahead from the wave’s white crowns whispering, “Run along the packed sand until you sweat, then jump in and ride the waves back until your lips are blue and hands clenched in fists from the cold.”

One year you raced along with your father. One wave was enough and you compared goose bumped arms, laughing until your sides hurt. Then you swam out for a second wave while he fetched the towels from above the shoreline. You came in with your teeth chattering unable to speak, stumbling into his arms.

He passed that winter and now, in old age, you bring out these memories salted away, reminding yourself that you were once young.