“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”
I keep fingers curved and the thumb firmly on the neck, but don’t press too hard. Press, don’t strangle. It’s better for my fingers. Look straight ahead as often as I can. Watch myself in the mirror. Watch my eyes.
“D, D, D, D. A7, A7, A7, A7. G, G, G, G.”
The wetsuit hugs like mummy wrappings. The principal challenge of the cold takes a backseat to balance. My twitch reaction muscles are slow learners. I shove my legs into the water before a toe can get a feel for it.
“… ocean, across the U.S.A. Then everybody’d be surfin’ like Californi-ey.”
At night, when there ought to be silence, there’s clanging. And splashing. Clangs and splashes alongside the occasional footsteps on the weathered dock. There’s a big sign telling tourists about future upgrades to the pier. If they remove the old wood and replace it with new wood, is it still the same dock?
“A bushy, bushy blonde hairdo. Surfin’ U.S.A. D, A7, D, A7, G, D.”
I sit and eat my sandwiches in the evenings. The west is in front of me and north is on the right. When I dream, I dream of women, and of the things I’d like to write. I may or may not write them. I think if only I can work here, or if only I can meet someone as bitter, or if only I can learn to fly. Wistful in the evenings only, with a sandwich and a beer. My neighbor takes his boat out on the weekends.
“We’ll all be… we’ll all… we’ll all be gone for summer. Tell the teacher we’re surfin’.”
If I placed one thing in a box at the bottom of the sea, it would be a marble. I would draw a map on leather parchment. I would place the leather parchment in a tin case. I would bring the tin case with me to a mountain. I would place it in a sack beneath my body at the peak. The wind would blow in from the risen sea, having flooded over the lands I knew. The tiny fish and jellyfish would float where I ate my sandwiches. The sun would shine on flooded valleys and the infant inland seas.
“Everybody’s gone surfin’. Surfin’, D, U.S.A.”