A Little Further Out

“Why did you go out so far?! How could you do that?! I was so afraid I was going to lose you Mouse, I just don’t understand why you went that far!” my mother screaming at me. I think I was about five, maybe four years old and had just been plucked from the ocean by a lifeguard, me, the water baby, needing a rescue and sending my mother into a terrified rage. I didn’t tell her of course. Didn’t mention it was my smaller-than-me visiting cousin that had gone too far, stepped off the cliff and pulled me back with her and that was why we were sent off into the near depths and needing help to return. This would be a pattern that has been shaved and reshaped but is still with me now…

I think it was called Balboa Bay but I could be totally wrong about that, much like I am so much about my foggy past, but it was where my mother would take me to float, splash and above everything else, swim while she wadded through the pages of her beloved and worshiped books. Days, whole days would be spent there, some of it playing in the sand, feeling the tiny grains rub rough against my flesh or tugging long strips of sea monster looking seaweed, the ones with the slippery leaves that would lick my ankles and scare the living shit out of me, from the ocean making the shore safe for everyone, punishing the beast for frightening me by pressing its bulbils tentacles, the thickly skinned bubbles that reminded me of warts, between my palms until they burst and released the most fragrant of sea potions. My mother all the while stretched out on a towel, arm draped across her brow as she lost herself in the pages, words, tales of people living for better…or just living more than she was. My skin stained brown from the relentless sun, my hair slicked back and white blonde from the punishing combination of sun and briny sea water, I would bob around in that water for days. I began to learn the cove, like truly learn it, just how far I could go, how many steps before my feet could no longer reach the bottom and my arms were powerless to pull me back. 

Three, there were three stages or rungs to the cove. There was the walking bit, where I could feel my feet stuck firmly in the murky and slippery wet sand, this was where I spent most of my time. I would turn handstands, dig for seashells, and run all Rocky Balboa like along the shore, my bare feet slapping the stinging bits of water pelting and then bouncing off of me. Then there was the “ledge” an area I would shimmy up to, my toes leading the way, where there was a dramatic and steep drop…one where I could feel my tummy plummet and heart begin to race the second I pinned my arms behind me and jumped. Falling, I could feel my hair float towards the surface as my body fell deeper into the cove, my insides tensing and twisting as I made my short decent into the deep end. Darker, colder, but exhilarating as my arms made big loopy swoops upwards, pushing me further under water. Lungs getting tighter, eyes growing wider I began to learn, this meant I was getting close, close to feeling my feet hit the bottom, close to bending my knees and pressing with all my might against the sea floor and catapulting myself back to the salty smelling surface. This place, this was my favorite place.  Not in complete control but not out beyond the cliff bobbing out of control. This place, this is where I find myself still, a million miles from that cove, my mother’s not so watchful eye, and slippery sea monsters masquerading as seaweed. Not bound by convention and not ruled by the desire to rail against it.  Fantastically out of control just long enough for my feet to settle into the muddy sand and push me back up. A place that sanctions my cravings and satiates my conformity, allows me to talk, bite, snarl, groan, lick, kiss, suck, taste, succumb and spring right back to the surface….and I never want to leave.

So it is without shock that I find myself here, late for work, writing about, thinking about my past and trying to figure out why it is I’m this way,  or like the things that I do, on the morning before a tasting that I had to do some tugging to get, and some backing off to make happen. Geek Wines, we are pouring some geeky wines this afternoon and I am fucking beside myself with anticipation. Randy allowed me to have this odd little tasting of wines that, much like me, don’t quite fit into the confines of tradition. Wild little wines that have their own quirky smile, sometimes salty taste and can make the heart pound away with confusion and wonder. Not weird, strange or bizarre…just somewhere in that unpolished and undefinable area between that and simple deliciousness….

I’m on my way…