Beluga

I was surfing a secret spot one beautiful morning, by myself. It was non-stop, perfect A-frames, 6 to 8 foot, barreling and spitting both ways. The sky was a slate gray, almost charcoal color that seemed to blend into the ocean at some indefinable place on the horizon. The air was cool, the breeze stiff, and off-shore. It stood the faces of the breakers open, turning them into tall, proud, peeling cylinders of heavy, green-gray water. Clear liquid beads blew off the falling lip of the waves, creating fans of spray that showered anyone in range in a salty rain. I was alone, on the main peak, getting the best surf of my life. I had been in the water maybe an hour. My thighs were already fatigued from at least a dozen incredibly long rides. I was trying to recount a better day, and firmly convinced that nothing could make this dawn patrol more perfect, when... I saw her. She was standing on the beach checking the surf. I don't know how long she'd been there, but she was a vision. She was about 5 foot 2, blond hair, weighing 195, maybe 200 pounds. She was wearing a pink and yellow, flower print Wal-Mart one piece, with the ruffles around the waist (they were actually sort of projecting out from between a coupla belly rolls). She had a sweet 6'6" Rusty C-5 Surfboard that looked to be about 23" wide and 3 and a quarter thick. I watched, mesmerized, as she waddled to the shoreline, deftly flopped onto her board (almost rolled off one side, but got it together), and started stroking out toward me. She duck-dived a couple of set waves (actually, I think she just blew out any air that was in her lungs, and her natural body mass just sunk that board like it was fuckin nothin'!), then found herself in perfect position for the third wave of the set. She turned and started to pull herself into this wave, three solid, full arm strokes, and she was dropping, front-side, down the face. It had to be double-overhead, 12, maybe 15 foot, a macker. She had so much speed when she hit her bottom turn, I thought sure she was gonna go right thru the surface, and not stop till she hit the reef. Instead, she flawlessly arced thru her bottom turn, pulled tight into the bowl, shifted her massive weight back onto her tail, shoved her meaty, ham-like arm into the face, slowing herself almost to a stop, and let the curtain fall around her. I felt like Ahab, seeing the great white whale for the first time. I was in awe of her massive, gelatinous beauty. She seemed so deep that I was sure she'd never get out; and she was so fat, I thought she'd get stuck way back in the barrel like that! But NO! And when the wave spit, it shot her fat ass out of the tube like a pretty pink and yellow Howitzer shell. She pulled another bottom turn; then a beautiful, long, drawn out carve off the top, her two cannon sized arms triumphantly thrust skyward, claiming the peaks for her own. I, humbled, paddled in, rode the shore break to the beach on my belly. I walked up onto the sand, fell to my knees, and wept. Wept for I knew I had seen something most never will. Like Bigfoot, the Yeti, and the Loc Ness Monster. I carry this memory with me, share the story with a trusted few, and look for her everywhere. Someday, somewhere, I'll find that fair ocean maiden again, and this time, I'll woo her, make her my love, and spend the rest of my days in complete Neptunian bliss.