Rain is Just Water by Charlie Burnett

The empty parking lot is no stranger to the absence of cars in such poor weather. When I saw that it was going to be raining, I texted Todd to see if we were still on. He responded with the shaka emoji and, “F Beach, 10:00 AM.” That morning, my mom drives me out of our gate, past the security hut, and onto Wickapogue Road. We drive along the glistening roads without a car in sight. The wet weather is only enjoyed by lush fields of grass and wildflowers. I look out the window and watch mansions, private beach clubs, and gated communities glide by, one after another. “I don’t know, I just asked Todd if we were still on and he said yes.” I blast my music, or at least the music my mom likes, as we start down the long stretch of marshlands and dunes on either side of us. We finally get on Road F and turn into the lot. I see Todd’s slumped silhouette through the borderlinelegal tint of his driver side window. I’m not sure whether he sees us, and then his window cracks open just enough for him to poke his hand out and wave lazily to my mom. I get out of the car and run to Todd’s truck while screaming, “Love you!” to my mom. She pulls off as I climb into Todd’s car and shut the door. “How ya doin’ ked?” asks Todd in his trademark exaggerated surfer voice. “Good. Good. How ‘bout you,” I reply. “I’m fine, late-night driving but fine.” “Do you know what it’s like out there?” “Not one bit, but who cares, let’s dangle the toes in the

48 watah and hope the shaks aren’t too hungry.” I mute a laugh into a chuckle. Chuckles are more detached and always cooler. I squeeze my fat legs into my skintight wetsuit like sausage into an intestinal cover. Todd slips into his effortlessly. Finally, I get on my suit, and, standing in the bed of his truck, reach a surfboard out to him. He takes it and lays it on the pavement, and takes the second and puts it down too. I look up at the grey sky, squinting to keep the drops of rain from blinding me. Todd yells, “Oy, pass me the cooler, yeah?” I kick the huge white Yeti within his reach and he pops it open. He pulls out a mason jar with an apple cider-colored liquid. He cracks open the jar accompanied with a nice pop and a coy smile. “Luke and some of the guys made moonshine in their basement,” he says exuberantly as he takes a swig and smacks his lips together, jokingly adding, “If we are getting swept out to sea I’m dying happy.” He closes the jar tightly and places it back in the cooler. I hop down onto the pavement, which doesn’t hurt because the soles of my feet are now numb from layers of dead skin that I’ve built up over the summer. I grab my board, swing it under my arm and start to walk. Todd follows and jogs past me toward the beach. We navigate through the small path in the dunes and reach the top. The only things between me and 20foot swells are 60 feet of damp sand, a pickup truck, a golden retriever, and their owner—another surfer Todd knows, Chris. Todd and I meander down the beach towards Chris, who has yellow shoulder-length hair and is wearing a vibrant pink poncho made out of terrycloth. His dog runs up to me and Todd, jumping and wagging his tail. After casual hellos and some belly rubs, we get to the matter at hand.

49

“What’s it like out their brudda?” asks Todd. “Ravishing” responds Chris. “And the rain?” I ask. They look at each other and smile. I flush slightly; I wish I hadn’t asked the question. Todd and I attach the leashes to our leg, and like panthers atop a tree stalking an unaware antelope, we wait for the right time to pounce. Todd watches the water and I watch Todd. I know he knows what to do. Todd runs, leaps, and lands, making it seem so easy as he glides across the water. I try to emulate his grace, but end up with the wind knocked out of me and a stinging stomach. As I begin to paddle I see that Todd has already made some headway in passing the breaking point. Whatever maneuver is necessary to make it past each wave, Todd does with ease. I, on the other hand, seem only a hair’s breadth away from every wave pushing me all the way back to shore. On big waves, Todd effortlessly pushes the nose of his board down, diving deep into the water and emerging at the surface on the other side, undaunted. For smaller waves, he lifts his chest high and lets the wave wash through him, absorbing the blow with minimal impact. Todd gets past the breaking point and waits for me. When I finally join him, I sit up on my board, my erect posture belying my fatigue. We turn to talking. Todd is never short of material, by weekday he is a landscaping pesticide sprayer, by night he is a car service driver, and of course in between that, he surfs. “I had a real doozy of a client yesterday,” he remarks. “For?” I ask, waiting for him to clarify which profession this would fall under. “Driving.” “Yeah?” I ask casually although inside I am burning with curiosity.

50 “Well I was supposed to pick up this woman at 6:30 P.M. right? And I’m there at 6:30 on the dot. She gets out of the house fucking 15 minutes late and gets in the car real pissy. She’s acting like she’s got the keys to her convertible wedged so far up her ass. Charlie, it’s ridiculous. So, we are driving and her phone rings, she’s talking to whoever with this god-awfulwhiny-ass voice and I don’t know if she didn’t think I could hear her but she goes ‘yeah and this driver is a’—PADDLE, CHUCK!” I look behind me and there is a behemoth wave barreling towards us. On a dime, I flip around, straighten my legs, and start paddling my heart out. All I can hear is the board hitting the surface as it slices through the water. The muted thwap is accompanied with the small splashes my hands make every time I plunge them deep into the water to move the board forward, along with a muffled “Go, Go, Go!” from Todd. Suddenly I feel myself being taken by the wave’s momentum, its undeniable force propelling my board forward with power. “I’ve practiced this with Todd thousands of times,” I thought; I know what to do. I lift my hands out of the water and grab the side of my board to push my chest up. I pull my right knee up to my chest and plant my foot firmly where my head was just moments ago. I twist my left foot to make it parallel with the right as I shift my weight towards the back of the board with the help of my front leg. I stand up. The wind whips through my hair and ears with a chill and an off-key whistle. The saltwater drips from my eyes and down my face as I wring it out with a tight squeeze. The sea spray flows through my nose and into my lungs as my board accelerates towards the shore. I stand on top of my board with my arms outstretched. I don’t feel the rain. We surf for hours and leave the sea exhausted and

51 happy. Todd and I drive through town to stop at a local market for lunch; we are both famished from surfing. We get the cardboard boxes so neatly stacked in a pile at the start of the salad bar and hot food section. My mouth salivates as I pick up the tongs and stack hot sausage, fried chicken, and rice, filling my box past its intended volume. I look over at Todd, who is meticulously picking out lettuce, grilled chicken, tomato and onion. He inspects each piece before laying it gently in the box. Even his salad bar game is cooler than mine. I hand my greasy food and my dad’s credit card to the cashier, a young and tired Hispanic woman, who meekly asks, “Do you want a bag?” I respond jovially saying, “No, I’m fine,” and hurry over to the seating area, quickly bringing the meal back into my greedy hands. Todd meets me there after checking out himself. We sit by the window looking at the damp streets, the rain pelting the pavement. Two uptight women run through the rain towards a black BMW as if their lives depend on it. Todd lets out a chuckle “Relax it’s just watah,” he says. We laugh together. Todd regales me with more stories of bitchy passengers and spoiled landowners. I eat slowly, never wanting it to end. My mom pulls into a spot outside and waves to us through the window. “Alright brudda, I gotta head out, I needa drop the boards off at the shack and then pick someone up in sag harbor in a bit,” Todd says. We say our goodbyes and he pats me on the back saying, “Nice job out there today ked.” I inwardly beam at the compliment. I walk outside with Todd, who turns right out the door as I turn left. I walk over to my mom’s car. She slides down the window and says “Sweetie, get in the car -- it’s raining!” I’m in no rush. Instead, I take a moment to look at

52 Todd one last time. He is walking away with a hop in his step, oblivious to all the others around him running frantically for cover. As he fades into the distance, he tilts his head back, trying to catch raindrops in his open mouth.