Page 37 of Chasing Stars
She lets out a sigh of what I assume is great relief. “Oh, thank God.” She laughs at herself. “I don’t think I’m ready for those waves.”
I squeeze her hand and give her a reassuring smile. “I’ve been surfing my whole life, and I can say, these are big waves. I wouldn’t expect you to try these your second time out.”
“Okay, good,” she breathes. “Maybe I can take some pictures of you.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Whatever you want.”
We carry the longboard down the beach and pick a spot. It’s another unseasonably warm October day at the Jersey Shore, but I will take it. I spread out a towel for Jenna and get to work waxing the board. Initially, I was going to shortboard it today, but the waves are a little big—even for me. I haven’t gotten into the details with her yet, but when I was fifteen, I was rescued in waves much like these. I’m a much stronger swimmer now, but that was a terrifying day. Surviving a near-death experience is part of the reason I never stopped surfing. I have to beat the ocean. I can’t let it beat me. If I stop surfing, the ocean wins.
I finish waxing the board and stand, tucking it under my arm. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask Jenna, who appears lost in thought as she watches the surfers in the water.
She smiles warmly. “Of course.” She waves me away. “Go, go, have fun.”
So, I do. There are about ten other surfers out here, and the waves are a good five to ten feet overhead. A familiar charge of adrenaline surges through me every time I run headfirst into the ocean. My stomach flutters and my heart races—but it’s a feeling I’ve grown to love, to chase. The day my wife left me, I came here, looking for that same rush. The ocean has tried to kill me—yet it has also saved me from myself. It’s been a constant in my life, and I can’t imagine a day when I won’t show up here chasing that rush.
I nod at a few surfers coming out of the water as I head in. “Careful out there,” one of them calls.
I snort, giving him a wave. I’ve got this. I throw myself on the board and paddle out, ducking under each enormous wave until I’m out past the break. Finally, I’m there. I sit up on my board, catching my breath before searching for a wave. Jenna is standing on the shoreline, shading her eyes, no doubt looking for me. I give her a wave and she waves back. I think I see her physically relax once she spots me. This appears to have her a little wound up. It’s probably best she's just watching.
I wait for the swell that rolls in rhythmic and powerful, promising the perfect ride. Then I spot it, a towering well of water swelling in the distance. My heartbeat quickens. Lying flat, I paddle hard, my arms slicing through the water with practiced ease. Even though the sun is bright with not a cloud in the sky, these waves are big and angry. I race against myself, chasing the wave building behind me, like a giant gathering strength.
Then it happens. The wave lifts me, tipping the board forward, and I’m on my feet in one fluid motion. Rushing water fills my ears as the world falls away—it’s just me and this angry ocean, moving as one. The ride is pure freedom, a fleeting but eternal moment where I become part of the wave. The ocean guides me back to shore as the wave loses momentum and then I see her. Jenna, on her feet, smiling and clapping for the ride she just witnessed. A smile breaks across my face, and I point at her. Then, I do it again.
Three rides in, my confidence is surging. Jenna has her phone out and is taking photos of me. I’m fire atop a vast wall of water. The next wave I take lifts me and cradles me in its powerful swell. Just like the other rides, I’m to my feet in a single swift motion. I’m on top of the world, flying, riding the wave’s energy as it carries me toward shore. Then something shifts. The wave ripples suddenly with unpredictable force, throwing me off balance. The nose of the board dips under the wave, cutting into the water, and for a split second, everything freezes.
Panic rises in my chest and every muscle tenses as I prepare to be pummeled. The wave takes over, launching me headfirst into the churning water. I flail as the wave swallows me whole. The force spins me like an agitator in a washing machine, disorienting me. I fight to regain control of my body and the board, but a sharp sting sears as the board smacks into my cheekbone. Pain blooms across my cheek, a dull throb that is quickly overtaken by saltwater filling my senses and the adrenaline needed to survive. I don’t know how long I am under the water but eventually, the wave spits me out. I gasp for breath, clinging to the leash that has me tethered to my thrashing surfboard. I blink, spit out saltwater, and gingerly press my fingers to my stinging cheek.Blood. Then I hear her.
“Miles!” Jenna is shouting my name. “Miles! Are you okay?”
I shake my head and brush water out of my eyes, trying to focus. When I look toward the shore, I see Jenna. She’s shielding her eyes and standing on her toes to try and spot me. Several other people stand by her, waiting for a sign that I’m all right. I hold up my hand to them and they cheer. I force myself to swallow the embarrassment of my epic wipeout and trudge out of the water.
“You okay, man?” a surfer asks, meeting me on my way out.
“I’m good,” I mutter without looking at him.
“You’re bleeding,” the guy says.
Before I can answer, Jenna runs to me. “Miles. Oh my God. Your cheek.” The worry on her face warms a part of me that up until now was cold and broken. “Come here.”
I drop the board to the sand as Jenna pulls me into a hug, running her fingers through the tufts of hair at the nape of my neck. I let myself be consumed by her embrace.
“You’re bleeding,” she whimpers.
Her fingers graze my cheekbone, and I wince, letting out a hiss. “I’m okay,” I reassure her.
“Miles. You scared thehellout of me.” She swats my shoulder, but I don’t miss the trembling of her hand.
“Trust me, it was no picnic for me either,” I tell her, sitting down on the board. She sits next to me and rests her head on my shoulder.
“Were you scared?” she whispers, leaning into me.
“Hell yeah, I was scared,” I say, my voice frayed. Then softer, “I knew I would be okay though. I always am.”
Jenna stays quiet but doesn’t lift her head. “Miles, my dad died on this beach when I was nine.” Her voice wavers, barely above a whisper.
I straighten, lifting her chin with my fingers. I touch her cheek, and she nuzzles into my hand. “Jenna. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. I feel terrible. She nods, and I keep my hand on her cheek. I like the feeling of it there. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “It was a really long time ago. I don’t even really know the details,” she says quietly. “But I was just so scared when I didn’t see you come back up. It terrified me.”
